Blizzard
by deadgirlWriting
Summary: After the Atlanta survivors are disbanded, Daryl is determined to stay on course to the Pacific Northwest, but a Midwestern blizzard leaves him stranded and weakened on a young widow's farm. This story features Daryl and an original character. Disclaimer: don't own any Walking Dead characters. **I will update/complete this story in the days to come!
1. Chapter 1-So Cold

**Blizzard**

**Chap 1: So Cold**

"**_Crowded streets are cleared away one by one. Hollow heroes separate as they run. Show me how it ends. It's allright. Show me how defenseless you really are. Satisfied and empty inside; well, that's allright. Let's give this another try. You're so cold but you feel alive. Lay your hand on me one last time…" So Cold by Breaking Benjamin_**

Daryl awoke to the sound of a maniacal wind swirling around him, rocking the entombed truck. His gloved hands gripping the steering wheel ached with cold tension. Freezing darkness filled the cab, but he couldn't remember how or when. In his immediate confusion, his memory felt lodged under heavy ice.

But one pounding thought broke through. _Walkers_.

The knapsack piled in his lap felt heavy like a living corpse flopped against him. In his fog, he bucked it before really realizing it was only a bag. The glimmer of the keys dangling from the ignition caught his eye, but the truck was obviously stalled. Still, he grappled with his lazy arm until he could reach, and attempted to start the stolen vehicle.

"Piece 'a shit," he croaked from a voice gone silent for too long. _Can't someone cut me a damn break_?

He'd made it across several states hotwiring abandoned 4X4's littering the back roads and had pretty decent luck with all of them. He should've known this last find would be a junker after having to peel its dead owner's body from the driver's seat. Half of his face had stayed glued to the vinyl, and he'd spent a good ten minutes making sure every scab of skin and fleshy goo had been removed before climbing aboard. Now, here he was a long way from Georgia, heading northwest like the group had intended, but stranded in some Midwestern blizzard.

He noticed the only light was coming from the packed snow illuminated against every window. Knowing better, he grasped for the handle and heaved himself at the door. The burst of action caused a flurry of coughs, and he spat a wad of chewy phlegm at the floorboard. Nothing. Not one slight budge.

_Situation's good and only gettin' better_, he surmised. He settled back, needing to wake up; think before acting; move before a walker stumbles upon the heap of metal and spends its eternal live death clawing its way in to him. The temperature in the cab was steadily dropping. His food supply was all but gone and there was nobody around to save his worthless ass. His sigh irritated his throat. Coughing with more force, his head bounced off the seat, jarring his senses. And his eyes remembered the sunroof.

"Fuck yeah," he growled.

He could see the wind pushing fuzzy threads of snow across the small rectangle cut into the roof. The snow was deep, only getting deeper, but it hadn't buried him yet. Shifting, he reached above until he could move his sleeve across the iced pane. He tried the latch, but the glass was frozen in place. He'd have to break the window. Make noise. Possibly draw attention to whatever lurked on the other side of the drifts. He'd have seconds to survey his surroundings, and with the tight quarters, no other way out, it'd be risky.

"Ah, fuck it," he whistled. Reaching instinctively for the barrel of his trusty loaded crossbow, Daryl sucked in enough strength to drive the wooden stock home without setting off the arrow.

Ice glass showered him and the seat. He pressed his palm into the sharp mess, heaving himself, crossbow first, through the jagged opening. He was aware but unaffected as the shards tore at his clothes and ripped into his skin. He seethed at the biting frost infecting every cut as he emerged. Weapon aimed for anything, he peered out into the blinding storm. An uninterrupted carpet of white unraveled, stretching for miles beyond the blanketed truck. Careening fast, checking behind him, he took in the forever forest of pine and oak, but just above the treetops, he swore he glimpsed a wisp of murky smoke.

His mind raced, challenging him with every possibility. _Could be a few miles. This ain't Georgia. Storm could worsen, slowin me down permanently with no real shelter. Drippin' blood. Forest could be crawling with walkers. Worse yet, hungry animals, and I ain't in no shape to take on a bear tonight. Are there bears in Kansas? Iowa? Nebraska? Wherever the hell I am… Bear…warm pelt_, _plenty of meat. And what about the bike? Can't just leave it here for the next asshole passin' by to snatch up. Hell, if I'm froze to death or bit it ain't nothin on me anyway. But the smoke means fire. Could be a camp…food. Gotta try_. He knew what he had to do.

Greta peeled her damp, soiled clothing from her weary body, folding each piece across the seat of the toilet. She pinned her cherry oak hair loosely atop her head. Then, she slid into the freshly boiled water that had cooled in only minutes after being dumped into the cold porcelain tub.

_Grrr; I'd give anything for a real long, hot bath again_, she thought. A snicker escaped past her wine lips. She heard herself say aloud, "Me and most of the living women around the world."

"I love the scent of this soap," she told herself, breathing in the vanilla-woodsy fragrance. She was careful to only slice a small sliver from the bar with the carving knife she kept near her in the tub, but the soap was getting slimmer. The thought of running out nearly seized her with terror, and that had her laughing again; a mad chuckle that would've curdled any sane person's blood.

"I'm not crazy. I'm perfectly rational," she reminded herself. "Soap is now a luxury. Along with toothpaste and hand lotion and aspirin and, and, tampons. Tampons are definitely in high demand." The mad chuckle erupted again. "And people to talk to."

But people meant closeness. Closeness meant loss. Loss lead to burden. And she made up her mind to be through with burdens until her heart was completely healed and the world was back in working order.

After her short bath, Greta dressed warm, bracing for another freezing night. She brushed her hair, brushed her teeth with a tiny squeeze from the dwindling tube, and chose a new book from the shelf. Still, after six months, her bedtime routine had not changed. She lived as if _they_ never died and the world had never ended.

Entering the sleigh bed alone was the most difficult adjustment. The bed had once been a cozy lifeboat for which they clung to each other nightly in this horrible nightmare. Now, it had become a sea of lonliness and desperate fear, crashing upon her, trying to drown her. The feather pillows weren't able to keep her afloat as she wept waves of tears into them most nights.

Tonight, she forfeited crying for more reading. One of her few New Year's resolutions she'd been mulling over. Before locking the bedroom door and slipping between the chilly sheets, she'd checked off another day on Samuel's huge desk calendar. Only three more days until January 1st. Five months and fourteen days since _they_….

"No!" She demanded of her tear ducts. "I'm starting a new novel tonight."

She read by candlelight, ignoring the warnings her mother had given her all growing up about reading in dim light. Each page she turned led her closer to mindless sleep. Her eyelids drooped heavily. As sleep overcame her, the novel hit the floor, the words Samuel once read trailing into strange and colorless dreams.

Daryl started strong, running on undiluted adrenaline through the trees. The storm had kept it just bright enough to see through the dark. Occasionally, he came across a walker, hard lumps of flesh frozen to trees, stiff and icy blue like a corpse should be.

_Nebraska winters have their perks_, he'd mused.

He'd wondered if they'd thaw like grocery store meat and become useable again. To be sure, he'd chopped them at the necks and dented their hard heads like hacking into an ice sculpture. He'd even sneered at his grotesque work when their bodies tipped over and spilled thick sludge blood all over the beautiful snow carpet.

As he continued through the dense forest and night ran deeper, he lost sight of the smoke trail, but he could still smell the burnt fragrance contaminating the fresh winter air. He followed the scent and the tracks of critters he knew were also onto the smell, hoping to find a morsel of charred prey. His stomach growled just thinking about it.

_Hell, I could stand to gnaw on something dead and cooked right 'bout now_, he decided.

Time seemed to stand dormant. More snow fell, but Daryl marched forward, weighed down by the load he hauled. Every pant filled his lungs with freezing wind and his face felt as hard and chafed as the rocks jutting from beneath the piling drifts.

He stumbled on one of the rocks, landing against a wall of snow built around a tree. He pushed himself upright using its trunk. A wary squirrel peered out at him from a gnarled opening. Daryl snickered at it, reminded of the summertime meals he'd endured of roasted squirrel meat and bush berries.

"If I could, I'd roast your ass for breakfast," he told it.

Instead, he pushed a handful of snow into his mouth, refreshing his swollen tongue. He swore it was the only thing keeping him going.

"I ain't gonna die out here!" He hollered out.

Finally, the faint, flickering light from a small cabin in a clearing between the trees welcomed him home like a savior. With every difficult step through the ever-building drifts, Daryl's sore legs protested. Barely liftable, his feet trudged toward the prized porch.

His lungs couldn't push out another breath. His lips were immovable. His body ached from the wreck and the wreckage of the storm, but he had to keep his wits about him. Most likely this safe haven was harboring walkers and he had to be ready to strike em down quick.

Gathering every ounce of will, Daryl lifted his leg, preparing to kick in the door and go in blazing.

_Anythin 'ta get outta this shit storm, he thought_.

But there was no need for such a machismo effort. He placed a rigid hand on the door, and it easily opened with a dreaded creak that surely would've alerted any geeks of his arrival.

"Bring it on, motherfuckers," he spat, breaking the ice that encased his mouth. He was ready. Crossbow cocked and loaded, positioned front and center with his hatchet just itchin' to be pulled from the torn lining of his coat.

Inside, he was greeted by an innocent enough wooden staircase. _Where the light was comin' from_. _I could use more light. _He noted to deal with that as soon as he secured the main level. Swiveling sharply to the right, he entered the darker room; an office of sorts lined with shelves of books spilling onto the floor and over a cleared away desk. He back tracked, heading into the main room. The room sprawled out with a few pieces of furniture clustered around a fireplace.

Coming around to the hearth, he extended an arm, testing the heat still emanating from a recently extinguished fire. A huge black cook kettle was placed at the base of the fireplace. Somebody alive had been here. His eyes cast overhead; was still here. Quickly, he snapped open the small door nestled into the staircase, ready again. No walkers. Instead, a strong feminine fragrance assaulted him.

_Smells like a Kentucky whorehouse in here_. He touched the tub with two long fingers. _Wet like one, too_.

This intrigued him. The sight of a woman, clean and perfumed. Not the kind of drunk, smeary-faced broads Merle dragged home from Earl's Place and banged away at all night either; something better. Pretty. Like…_Car_…he didn't want to think her name. Not now when he should be focusing on locating geeks to slaughter.

He continued moving; back to the nook of what appeared to be a small dining room with splatters of drying and peeling blood on the log walls and broken dishes swept into a corner, collecting dust.

_What the fuck's this?_ This put him on edge.

The freezing wind snaked along the staircase. It seeped under the door, invading her pitch black bedroom, coiling around her in the big sleigh bed. Unnaturally alert, Greta shot upright.

"The front door!" She squeaked out. In all her days of living like this; extra careful and paying close attention to every safety detail, she'd forgotten to lock and barricade the front door.

Her chest heaved frightfully. She forced her eyes to adjust in the murky darkness before realizing she'd also fallen asleep before blowing out the candle. The candle had burned down to almost nothing. _I've been asleep too long. _

Hollow footsteps echoed across the hard wood floor below her. It wasn't the monotonous shuffle of the walking dead, but a quietly purposeful pace, a zombie tracker or thief or squatters invading her home. Instead of cowering, she tore back the bedcovers. Her stocking feet sought the floor and her hands groped for the loaded shotgun leaning against the nightstand.

Swift, noiseless in the familiar dark, she pattered across the room to the locked and barricaded door. She lifted the chair and eased the latch aside, releasing the tiny click that ended the only security she had between her and the whoevers lurking below.

Slithering between the crack she allowed for herself to escape, she halted just at the top of the stairs. The falling snow was lightening up the entryway to the cabin, but nobody was standing at the base of the stairs. She quickly flicked off her knitted booties knowing running on wood floors would be more productive barefoot.

_But what about outside? There's two feet of snow out there by now_, she warned herself.

"Nobody or nothin' is chasing me from my home," she whispered.

Even more alert, Daryl entered the kitchen. Sniffing the air, the scent of woman was thankfully stronger than that of rotten death. He darted around the table and into an open closet pantry. He grabbed at another door most likely leading to a cellar, but it was locked. Another level to check out soon enough. The back door leading outside was also locked and barricaded by a heavy oak chair. The glass window in the door had been boarded up. In fact, Daryl noticed most windows were boarded up like Night of the Living Dead, but just enough illumination from the snowfall lit a path through the place.

With the main level secure, he decided to lighten his load a bit; strip off a few layers to make maneuvering between the upstairs rooms a bit simpler.

Greta began her painfully slow descent down each stair, knowing just where to step to avoid an awful creak. She crouched, hidden by nighttime, watching between the rails as the intruder removed a dark stocking cap from his head. The matted down hair on his head didn't budge. It just clung, colorless in the dark to his scalp. He peeled off the coat next and then a patchy makeshift poncho. He put each piece of clothing deliberately along the arm of the sofa. But it wasn't the clothing she was concerned with. It was the crossbow propped at his leg and the hatchet blade catching a speck of moonlight, glinting at her with its sharp metallic smile. A confrontation was brewing. She bit down on her lip to keep from whimpering and fell back onto her heels against the hard stairs.

He had just put the hatchet back into his waistband when he heard the skitter of movement behind him. He wrapped his probably frostbitten hand tight around his preferred weapon of choice and headed for the staircase.

They saw each other at the same time. _Here it comes_, she thought, standing, aiming the barrel of the shotgun at his skull. His face was a blank shadow in the darkness. Daryl rounded the rail, took a first step, and settled the crossbow inches from her steady chest_. It's the woman_, he instantly thought. _And she's alive_.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he whistled. "You're alive."

Her voice came out as steely as the grey eyes behind the gun. "Whoa yourself, cowboy. I ain't no horse. And what does it look like? Of course I'm alive."

"Put the gun down," he commanded.

She inhaled sharply, but she didn't budge. "Heck no. I'm not stupid."

"Put the goddamn gun down, lady," he said again, louder.

She refused to be intimidated. "I said no. This is my house, and I'll be the one passing out the orders. Now, you put down your toy and back the heck off."

His face twisted into an amused sneer lost on her in the dark. "My _what_?"

"You heard me."

He ignored her, looking past her in the darkness. "Who ya got up there with you?"

"Nobody." She jutted her chin down the stairs. "How many in your party?"

"One. Me." Daryl waited, but she just stood there, rooted to the stair with the shotgun poised assertively between his brows.

His narrow eyes slit into hard icy blue shards, trying to slice through her Tough Girl veneer. "You keep pointin' that gun at me, best pray you know how to use it."

But it wasn't an act. She stepped forward, not missing a stair until he could smell the steel of the barrel and the powder from her last firing.

"You think I'd be alive right now if I didn't know how to use it?" The confidence in her voice chilled his bones like the cold outside couldn't do.

Daryl lowered his weapon, trying some common sense instead. "You shoot me you're gonna have to kill me twice. Cuz we all come back as one of those things,"

"So I found out," she said, sinking the gun into his flesh, pushing him backward. "Now, walk, Cowboy. Into the living room where I can see you."

Too weak and tired to struggle, he complied, taking awkward backward steps around the furniture until she had him in good enough light. He towered over her, and without the advantage of the staircase, she now aimed the gun into his chest.

"You bit or injured?" She asked.

"Not bit, but I crashed my truck up on the main road. Saw smoke comin' from your cabin so I hiked my way through. I'm not lookin' to do you any harm. I just need to rest. Eat somethin'. Warm up. Look at a map and think a while. And then I'll be gone. Now you gonna stop puttin' that gun on me or what?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. The problem for you is I'm not running a boarding house for wayward drifters. You want food and a place to sleep we're going to have to work out some kind of arrangement."

"I don't make arrangements, you crazy bitch," Daryl sputtered with dry amusement, wagging his head.

"Watch your mouth!" She warned him. "I had to shoot, stab, and bury the last guy that wasn't into making arrangements. Thought he was just gonna waltz in here and steal my kerosene and do whatever else he wanted to me." Her eyes flicked across the room to the splatters on the wall. "Evidence is still fresh. So don't push it with me, cowboy."

She was small, barefoot, shivering from the cold. Daryl knew he could take down the gun in a flash, subdue her, and secure the upstairs. She could've been lying about other people in the house. Someone stealthier could be waiting in the wings, using her as bait, just itchin for the moment to bring him down.

This world's gone to shit. Can't trust nobody. Those were Rick's words. _But Rick's dead; not stranded in the middle of a fucking blizzard in some foreign place. He ain't got a care in the world right now. I gotta do this. Just this once to get by. _

He glanced at the fireplace, the smoldering wood and cook pot. _Warmth. Food_. He felt the worn couch he was backed against with his hands. _Good place to rest_. Daryl's hands came up in surrender.


	2. Chapter 2-Thin Ice

14

**Blizzard**

**Chap 2: Thin Ice**

"_**The ice is thin, come on, dive in underneath my lucid skin. The cold is lost, forgotten. Hours pass, days pass, time stands still light gets dark and darkness fill my secret heart forbidden. Offer what you can. I'll take all that I can get. Only a fool's here…" Ice by Sarah McLachlan**_

Greta smirked, pleased with his submission. "You're smart. But why should I trust you?"

"I should be askin' you that same question," Daryl told her. He talked fast, his Georgian drawl thickening. "I dropped my weapon. You're the one with the gun still pointed at me. 'Sides, you're still standin', right? If I was gonna do somethin to ya I woulda already done it."

_He's underestimating you again,_ came the warning. But looking at him; really seeing him told her he was most likely right. He was much taller and stronger. His arms were long and lean, but his body wasn't starving enough to eat up the muscle defining his frame. He proved his strength by making it this far from the main road. He showed his desperation by entering what could've been a very bad situation in a weakened state. He demonstrated cooperation by lowering the crossbow and looking her in the eye. The last guy she had been forced to kill was sickly and unarmed, but she wouldn't let Cowboy know that.

His icy eyes refused to plead for food, but she could see the need; a need that could move him to more frantic action if she didn't let up just a little. _Have I lost all compassion_? _Did death, decay, and one other's betrayal kill off my humanity entirely? He's alive. Someone to help here; added protection; someone to talk to._

_ Someone to have to worry about. _Another warning_. _

"I want to trust you," she stated.

A hungry tongue lashed out over warming lips. "Then get on with it."

Daryl's trigger hand twitched. Not from want of weapon, but from the sharp burning sensation needling his fingertips. He winced, balling it into the tightest fist he could form, but the pain didn't silence. It shouted back at him louder.

His sudden discomfort didn't go unnoticed. "What happened to your hand?"

"Exposure, I think," he grumbled.

Greta eyed his injured hand throbbing inside a torn glove. She sighed, relenting. "I'm about to take a huge risk on you. Don't make me regret it. Please."

_This is what Samuel would do_. She insisted. _Trust. Help. Give the man a chance_.

Begrudgingly, she placed the shotgun beside his crossbow. He stood silent, watching her as she moved quickly to the tucked away bathroom. He heard her uttering a list of necessary supplies, but the pain in his hand pounded, deafening, into his ears.

When she returned, a dim kerosene lamp hung from her wrist. She placed a plastic bowl filled with basic first aid supplies on a low end table. "I need to step out to the porch; get some fresh snow to melt to warm up your fingers. Cover me."

Daryl reached behind, unsheathing the hatchet from his waistband. She pointed to the light, but he refused, not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention to them. With a sharp nod, he headed for the door. A blast of unbelievable cold and wind almost knocked him back, but he barged through it, pushing forward into the snow again. Visibility had reached its lowest, but he kept his gaze sharp, trained for walkers or anything else that was stupid enough to come upon him.

It only took her a second to bend down and scoop. They were back inside with the door locked and barricaded within moments.

"Thanks," she breathed. She motioned for the stranger to follow her around the furniture. He complied. "Wow. It's terrible out there. Worst storm we've had in years."

"It's the end of the world. Nothing's going to be easy," he snickered.

She cracked a sardonic smile. "You're probably right." She patted at the couch. "Come have a seat, Cowboy. Let's have a look at that hand."

Daryl eased onto the couch. A gratuitous sigh escaped him.

She was kneeling at his feet, organizing her tools by lamp light. "Yes, I'm sure after your little jaunt through my woods it does feel good to take a load off."

His only reply was a hard grunt. His eyelids drooped, but the smell of a fresh fire starting had his eyes open, watching, on alert again.

She carefully cradled his hand. A contemplative grimace creased her face as she surveyed the damage. The glove was practically shredded. Tiny specks of glass jutted from thawed, oozing cuts in his palm. His swollen fingers had busted loose from the cheap fabric; their tips dark like day-old bruises. "Definitely frost bite," she diagnosed. "I'll have to cut the glove off."

"Do whatcha gotta do," he told her, letting his head flop back against the comfort of the cushions behind him.

"Okay," she said softly.

He stared above at the beams of wood crisscrossing the low ceiling. He could tell by their imperfect cuts that this entire place had been built by hand. Following every plank kept his mind off her busy touch; gentleness that brought so much hurt with it. He listened as she talked her way through the procedure. First, cutting away the glove with a tiny pair of scissors then sinking his hand into the warm melted snow. She explained how she would prepare the wrap, leaving his trigger hand mostly unusable for a few days until the damaged tissue healed.

"At least I got my axe hand," he muttered.

"I'm surprised you are still alive, to be honest. People have been known to freeze to death out here in better weather," she said.

As she worked, lodging cotton balls between each finger, Daryl seethed at the cold stabs slicing through each digit. He'd been shot, beaten, and damaged by a myriad of other traumas in his life time, but never had he felt such a searing pain before.

The only thing keeping him conscious was her soothing voice and heady fragrance. With the small fire at her back, heating her skin, the scent he recognized from the bathroom and kitchen was all the stronger, infiltrating him, stirring some sleeping part of him. He repositioned, daring to look at her. At the pretty mouth moving over words he barely heard; the sharp chin bobbing as she spoke, and the clean hair that drifted past her shoulders like falling snow. She was the woman he'd mentioned to himself upon first catching a whiff of that soap.

Agitated, he cleared his throat. "You 'bout done?"

Either she didn't notice his discomfort or she chose to ignore it. She was unraveling the burn bandage from its tight roll. "Just about. Sit tight, Cowboy. You aren't going anywhere tonight, anyway."

She began winding the bandage, starting at his thick wrist, moving steadily over the tough palm she'd picked the glass from. _Such a virile hand rendered useless_. The thought disappointed her. She'd actually been sitting here, telling him her every move, but plotting in her mind his every move tomorrow. The work that would need to be done on the property. She hoped he could swing an axe with the other hand like he told her. _We'll need firewood soon. _

_ We?_

He sighed, suddenly restless. "Name's Dar,"

She shushed him, placing a halting hand in his face. Her head shook, eyes closing like she couldn't look at him while saying what she had to say. "Look, for the sake of sparing ourselves a lot of trouble in the near future, let's just leave our names out of this."

"Fair enough," he snorted. "Hey girl, doesn't matter to me who you are. I'm gonna get my bearings and then I'll be out of your hair in a few hours anyway."

_Her hair_. She sat up, finished, and sighed heavily. She tucked the distracting strands behind her one ear. Daryl looked away.

She was full of sighs, letting them out one by one tonight. "I know it sounds callous. But yes, in a few days you will be gone. And I'm certain we've both lost enough people we cared about so there's no need to make this personal,"

He interrupted, belligerent. "A few days? Didn't you hear me? I said a few hours."

She stood, using his achy knees as leverage. "There's no way I'm letting you leave in your condition. That hand needs a few days to repair itself, and you need food; adequate shelter until you're fit to move on."

Daryl heaved himself up, nearly pushing her into the small flames. "Yeah, and how you plannin' on stopping me? You don't weigh but a buck and a dime soaking wet."

He reached with his good hand, scooping up his bow. At the same time, she scrambled for the gun, but he kicked it, sending it scurrying under the sofa. She fell onto her knees, diving, but she crashed into two powerful legs blocking her way to the gun.

"Nope, un-unh," he grunted, effortlessly scooting her across the wood with his boots.

Greta cried out, a weak but guttural noise that gave him enough satisfaction to sneer down at her. She pounded on his feet and legs with even weaker, tired fists, but he wouldn't budge.

"Is that all you got, girlie?" He chuckled. "Just tough talk without your gun, hunh?"

This insinuation infuriated her. Climbing up his legs, Greta stood on her toes, putting mere inches between them, trying to get him in the eyes.

"You have no idea what I'm capable of," she vehemently whispered.

Daryl bent, his stubbly chin scratching at her peaked nose. His cold glare froze her, but she held onto him, gripping his bare arms mercilessly. He grabbed at her, too, with his hurt hand, shaking her loose from his frame.

"Yeah? You don't know me too well yourself, now do ya?" He breathed onto her, assaulting her with his hot, stale breath.

Greta coughed, relenting again. She took a step back, regaining her composure. "Oh for Pete's sake. I give up on you. Have it your way. Leave tonight if you want, but first let me feed you."

Daryl blinked. "What?"

_This chick is loony. First she wants to shoot me now she wants to feed me._

He watched, incredulous, as she lifted the lamp and sauntered to the kitchen. Her voice trailed behind her. "And you need a toothbrush. Bad."

"That's the last thing on my mind," he called out to her.

While she kept herself busy, he nudged the shotgun further under the couch, but not too far where he couldn't reach it with just a quick swipe of his arm. He still intended on setting up camp on the cushions for tonight, and the extra weapon stored safely beneath him covered him with another layer of comfort.

When she returned with canned meat and stale crackers, the hostile tension in the room had dissolved into casual wariness. Daryl eyed her as she propped herself beside him, handing him the food. He turned his face from her offer, but his mouth nearly watered all over the plate.

"Come on. You need some protein. Jumpstart that metabolism," she coaxed.

His eyes stayed riveted to the dwindling fire ahead of him. "Nah, I don't need your food."

She sweetened the deal by holding out two aspirin tablets. "Yes, you do. And you need these painkillers. Take them with the food or your hand will throb all night."

Daryl took the tablets, swallowing them whole and dry. Then, mindlessly hungry, he grabbed the meager meal, devouring it noiselessly. It was a mild irritation, her eyes babysitting him, watching him lick at the oily can and his salty fingers, but he didn't bother saying so in hopes of getting a second helping.

"Ya got any more?"

She nodded; rising, fetching him another can and a sleeve of the saltines. She also brought back two mugs stuffed with tea bags.

"Tea?" She offered.

"Ain't never had it," he grumbled between mouthfuls of meat and crackers. But he didn't refuse when she drew the last of the warm water into each mug and stirred a drop of fresh goat's milk and honey into the insipid brew.

_Shit sucks_, Daryl declared, but he drank at it; slow, like the woman. She was quiet for the longest time just gazing into the fire that refused to quit on them. Her painted toes stretched toward it, grateful for its warmth.

Daryl wordlessly tossed her the knitted afghan from the back of the couch. She thanked him with a tender smile, and he grinned, tight-lipped and small, back at her.

She whispered to him. "Who did you lose?"

The question pried at him, a set of doors he didn't feel like opening tonight. But after a few moments, he answered. "A lot of people. Had a group; men, women, kids back in Georgia. My brother. But we got separated. Some of us got taken down by walkers."

"Walkers?" she repeated. "Oh, you mean the zombies?"

"Yeah, zombies," he snorted, thinking of his first experience with zombies on the television screen. Him and Merle laughing as some dumb assholes tried to take refuge in an abandoned shopping mall from blue-faced geeks.

"A big ass herd came through our camp," he continued. "Most likely migrating for the winter. We were low on ammo and manpower. People just started panicking and scattering in the dark. When I saw we were overrun, I just jumped on my bike and took off. Tried to save a few on my way out, but…"

He trailed off, his face sealing up tight. _Carol_. _Couldn't protect her or her little girl_. He wished he'd never said anything.

The clamp on his mouth had her wishing she'd never asked. "Sorry. I, uh, just. I haven't had anyone to talk to in so long. Months really. I've kinda forgotten what to say to someone in the midst of a zombie apocalypse," she admitted, tucking her chin sheepishly into the open collar of her pajamas. "I lost my husband, Samuel."

"Anyone else?" He wondered.

"Everyone," she uttered. Tears wanted to come, but she remembered that all-important New Year's resolution, and forced them down into the hollow cavity of her chest. _There used to be a heart there_, she recalled, _but it was removed months ago._

Greta rose, handing off the afghan to her new overnight guest. She removed a hand stitched quilt from a rack beside the front door and gathered several throw pillows from random chairs poised around the room.

"Now's the time to rest. Because tomorrow you'll have to make good on our arrangement," she reminded him.

"Thing is, I don't remember any _arrangements_ being made," he said. "What you got in mind?"

"We have work to do in the barn."

He huffed, thinking of the Greene Farm and their barn full of geeks. "Last time I had work to do in a barn meant takin' down walkers."

"Well, I doubt we'll have that issue in this storm. Good thing about a blizzard is that it keeps those creepy crawlers at bay. Probably most we'll have to worry about is a dry goat," she said before uttering a listless goodnight. She turned with the dying lamp and headed upstairs.

Back in her room, she locked and barricaded the door. She sought the familiar handle of her late husband's hiking machete from under the mattress. Tonight, it would sleep beside her under Samuel's cold pillows.

Below her, Daryl sniffed at the powdery quilt she had placed over him. _Smells like_…in the sparse firelight, he took a closer look at one particular square of the blanket. Pairs of grinning giraffes and lions and zebras poked their heads from floating arks imprinted on the earth-toned swatch of cloth. On another, tiny teddy bears hiked footballs and kicked soccer balls. His stomach tightened as yet another square depicted green puppies chasing falling leaves on an ivory background.

Growling, he threw the quilt from the couch, watching it land in a heap somewhere on the floor. Then, squeezing his eyes hard, he stood, picked it up and placed it on a nearby chair.

_Fucking end of the world_ was his last thought before being overcome by sleep.


	3. Chapter 3-Snow Falls

27

**Blizzard**

**Chap 3: Snow Falls**

"_**The light behind your eyes tells me that you've cried sometime tonight. I offer down my hand but without your plans you cannot hide. The white snow falls on (I cannot see) on my black heart (in front of me). I hear you call loud and clear. It melts my heart. Show me how to see the love that brings serenity…"Serenity by Fireflight**_

Neither the smell of instant coffee nor sizzling bacon a few feet from his nose roused the sleeping cowboy. Greta had risen, dressed, and had breakfast cooking before the dawn; her usual routine, ready for a productive day on the farmstead despite the accumulated snow.

She leaned beside the couch, examining his frostbitten hand. Blue-violet fingertips darkened the bandage, but some of the swelling had gone down. _It will certainly hinder his ability to do much today._

In sleep, he looked tormented with a furrowed, angry brow and a snarling mouth surrounded by mean whiskers. _He'll need more aspirin to stave off the pain and any fever. _And he stunk worse than the hog pen_. Good scrub in the tub and a razor wouldn't hurt him either. _

Kneeling closer, she noticed dry blood caked above his brow where wisps of greasy hair had been shoved aside in sleep. Tiny specks of glitter decorated the wound. Greta smoothed a light finger across the mark, the leftover glass pricking into her flesh.

"Ooh," she breathed, recoiling.

She shook it off. Using leftover bandage, she gingerly swiped at the stranger's forehead. Some of the miniscule shards broke off, scattering over his closed eyelid. "Shoot," she almost giggled, carefully blowing at them until they disappeared.

In an instant, he shifted, eyes flashing open. The violence in them made her gasp and back away, but his damaged hand was in her hair, yanking tight. The hatchet was at her throat; its cold, sharp smile she remembered biting into her skin.

He held her there, watching as her stunned face faded into a lethargic stare.

"I thought we were past the point of pulling our weapons on each other," she said, emotionless.

Her let her go, roughly; almost throwing her backward onto the floor.

"Good morning to you, too," she muttered.

"Goddamn it, woman! If you ain't about to kill me why're you in my face? You gotta quit comin' at me like that or you're gonna end up with a blade in your skull, and it won't be anyone's fault but your own." His instant anger impressed her. _Samuel usually woke up from a good night's sleep grinning and whistling, ready for a short stack of pancakes. This guy wakes up immediately pissed_, _ready to kill_.

She had to remind herself. _He's been out there, Greta. In the world. Getting dirty; surviving on what's left; not holed up safe and tidy at home_.

He huffed, going quiet; the food smells suddenly registering. She blinked, waiting as he awkwardly fidgeted with calm. His mouth grew taut, face softening just a bit. He cleared his throat, gulped, then gestured to the cook fire.

"Bacon's burnin," he grumbled.

She turned, putting her focus back on breakfast. "That's the only way I can put the stuff in my mouth," she told him, "But I'll spare your share."

She could feel him rustling, stretching. "I slept like the dead," he yawned.

She chuckled, "That ship has sailed, Cowboy. The dead haven't slept fitful in a while."

This made him smirk, the dregs of his morning tension draining. "Yeah, s'pose not."

The sun was barely dawning; just sticking its bright light right into Daryl's business. _Another fucking_ _day. _Sometimes he wondered why the days kept coming. Why he woke up at all. Just kept going when it would be so easy to just pull the trigger, put a quill right up through his chin. Sleep forever. _Has to be in the head. Don't wanna come back as one of those flesh eatin' bastards. _

It disgusted him that these kinds of thoughts were coming upon him more frequently. He jumped from the couch, stomping to the nearest window. He found a gap between the boards to peer out from, see what the day had in store for him.

"Looks like the snow's stopped," he told her.

"Good. We'll need the break today."

He turned to her. She poured coffee and slathered plates with scrambled eggs and peppered bacon. She had also set aside two more aspirin for him to swallow. Sweetness warmed her smile as she held breakfast to him, and Daryl could only scowl.

"How do you do it?" He spat. "Why do you do this?"

_Oh geez-wheez. What is with this guy? Can't he just get with the program already? Play nice? Be thankful to be alive or be gracious for anything? _His discontent was strangulating like a noose roped around her neck designed to choke the life from her.

Greta sighed. She set his plate at his feet. "Because I can. Because I have to. Someday the world will get put back together and when it does people will need places like mine. Farms, land; and people like me that know how to make it work."

_Goddamn her and her hope for this place_. He shook his head, insulting her with that shit-eatin' smirk again. "You're foolin' yourself, woman. This world is broken. Ain't no fixin' what's happened. This is it. Why can't you see it for what it is now? Ain't nobody gonna need you. Or me for that matter."

_Ouch_. _He went right for the kill_. She was sure his words hurt worse than those arrows he toted around. _Suck it up, babydoll. We're all dealing with this in our own ways. You're tough and he's mean. Plain, simple fact of it._

She shrugged. Her mouth crumpled, but she straightened it quickly. Her voice wavered. "So, indulge me. Eat. I only eat two meals a day so gotta make breakfast count." Her chin indicated to a pile of clothing at the end of the couch. "When you're done, get changed. I gathered you some cold weather gear,"

He interrupted, yelling. "I ain't wearin' no dead man's clothes!"

This time it was just plain intolerance she could only muster. "Are all you Southern rednecks this darn stubborn?" She didn't wait for his reply. She stood. "Suit yourself, Cowboy, but just because the snow's stopped doesn't mean the wind stops blowing or the cold doesn't get to you. See you outside soon."

Daryl let her walk away, but his eyes stayed glued to her as she added a few more layers to her already bundled form. She forced a heavy wool cap over her head before dismantling the barricaded front door.

Even with all the layers, her thin body swam in the loose clothes.

_Short as she is, probably had a cute curvy figure before this shit_, he entertained. _Shame's she's just skin and bones now though. _

His eyes flicked over the loaded plate at his feet. He noticed she was looking at it, too. "Looks like you need this more than me."

Her eyes refilled with that pleasant gleam he'd seen over by the fire when she was serving him up. "No thanks. I've had mine." She patted a gloved hand over her well-insulated torso. "Zombie Apocalypse; best diet I've ever been on."

Even he had to genuinely smile at that one; even if her good-natured spirit was putting out the flames of his fiery mood. He grabbed up the plate, catching a glimpse of the shotgun's steel barrel beneath the couch.

"Hey, you wanna get your gun first? Shouldn't be going outside unarmed," he said.

She grabbed an axe that was carefully stowed behind a coat rack. "Got it covered."

_Som'bitch, she was right, _Daryl thought, stepping out into the freezing morning. The snow had stopped coming down, but the wind had picked up, blowing the white stuff all over Hell and back. Being a Southern redneck, as she'd correctly pegged him, he'd never seen anything like it. _Can't see worth a shit out here now so best stop burnin' daylight._

He thanked himself for reconsidering about the gear she'd left him. The wool socks would certainly help keep his feet mobile enough and the coveralls weren't much different than the ones he'd zipped into before rolling under the pickup truck outside his trailer. Definitely wind-resistant, and sturdier gloves that fit well on his good hand; a little too tight on the damaged one.

He followed the woman's tracks around the cabin, hauling his legs through the feet of drifts_. No way could walkers get around in this mess. And they ain't smart enough to come out of the cold neither. _

Getting a first look at the property, Daryl whistled in awe. "I'll be damned."

The woman's farmstead was immense. At first scan, he counted five smaller buildings positioned around the obvious centerpiece of the grounds, the huge barn. In every direction, a ravaged field bordered the property, hugging them in false security.

_If walkers can make it through the backwoods of Georgia they can stumble across miles of corn in Nebraska._

Daryl continued following the tracks between a few of the smaller sheds winding around the back of the cabin. The wind whipped at his face. He bowed his chin several times to catch his breath until he spotted her coming from a tall wooden box almost the size of a casket sitting upright.

He knew. _The pisser_. He'd been wondering where a guy could take a piss without his dick freezing off.

She ambled to him, her mouth a permanent, icy grin. "There's the toilet," she confirmed. She pointed as best she could with the handle of the axe she hauled with grace. "Behind it is the chicken coop and behind that is the grain bin. I'll be moving between the two." She stepped around him.

"On the other side of the barn is the smokehouse. Samuel was partial to hogs, but I use it occasionally to bake bread and biscuits," she explained. "But my flour supply is getting low."

"What's over there?" Daryl hollered through the howls of ornery wind.

"Just a tool shed. I've moved the most used tools to the barn. Don't need a bunch of makeshift weapons scattered all along the farm, ya know. And that's where I'm going to start you off; the barn."

He gazed at the lofty building. It seemed to stare back at him, menacing and quiet. _Walkers in the barn_. _Sophia_. He reached instinctively behind him, fingering the bow strapped to his back.

"You gotta replenish the animals' hay," she instructed. "You'll find bales in the loft and a fork. The job should be fairly manageable with that sore hand."

"I'm a woodsman not a farmhand, but I'll do whatever I can," he assured her. With a nod between them, he turned and ran for the pisser while she trudged to the coop.

When he emerged from the tight quarters of the box, he found her outside the chicken yard, digging snow from around a section of the fence. _What the hell's she doin?_

She stood, facing him. "Hey, Cowboy!" She yelled. "Get your wangdangdoodle over here!"

"My _what?_" He squawked.

He could see her owly grey eyes roll dramatically. "Never mind! Just come here!"

He slogged the few feet to the yard and immediately recognized the trouble. She was holding a torn piece of the twisted metal fence out. "Goshdarn raccoons," she was semi-cursing. "Wonder how many eggs they got away with last night. Now we gotta mend the fence and,"

Daryl checked the ground, pointing to the packed snow littered with paw prints. "Nah, those aren't coon tracks. See?"

She glanced past his finger, shrugging. "So, foxes?"

He licked at his icy dry lips. "Naw, you got somethin' bigger to worry about. Those are wolf tracks." He grabbed at a quill, using its tip to mark out all the intersecting prints leading to the ripped pocket in the fence. "More 'an one of em, too."

Taken aback, she eyed him quizzically. "Wolves? Are you sure? How about a big dog?"

Impatient, he spat, "Lady, I told you, I'm a woodsman. Pretty much lived between trees my entire life. Learned to track as a kid after getting lost in the woods for 'bout nine days. Can't be a dog. The back prints are all in line with the front prints. Dogs don't walk like that; wolves and coyotes do. But this would be the biggest damn coyote I ever saw, that's for sure."

She mulled this over. "Hmm. Wolves don't typically get this close to the property. What do you think that's all about?"

"You're a farm girl; you should know this stuff," Daryl scoffed.

"Farm _wife,_" she corrected, "and I know how to milk a goat; chop off a chicken's head. Wolves are…out of my range of knowledge. You're the expert here, Cowboy. Shoot."

Daryl replaced his ammo, his shrewd eyes seeking out the woods beyond the coop. "This apocalypse you keep harpin' about has about half the population down. Animals are startin ta migrate, reclaim their territory. Here they got an open cupboard just waitin ta be raided. Any way you can move these chickens into the barn?"

Greta scratched at her scalp under the hat. "Hmm. I don't know." _What would Samuel do? What_ _would Samuel do? "_I don't see why not. But what about setting traps?"

Daryl shook his head, uncertainty covering his face. "You got traps big enough to snare a wolf?"

She shrugged. A memory of something about coyote traps nagged at her, but she had no clue where Samuel would've put them if not by the raccoon traps.

"I think the only option is to move the coop into the barn. Keepin' the barn sealed up and checkin for plank tears'll be good enough for now. Til thaw."

Still thinking, Greta backed away, heading in the direction of the barn. "You know, we do have some raccoon traps set over in the hog pen; by the trough. Darn critters kept getting into the pig slop. Samuel taught me how to set them back last spring. I've been setting them ever since and catching a few here and there."

He followed her, interested to see the traps; if they were anything like his makeshift snares. "Yeah, but I'm tellin ya, you ain't gonna catch a wolf in no coon trap. You got,"

There she was, mouth agape, staring under the trough of the hog pen. Daryl rounded the bend, peering through the fence under the trough along with her. Snow had bunched up around the feeding corral, but there was a small patch of ground cleared under the wood. In that one empty space, something was squiggling, thrashing about and nipping at the tiny claw ensnared in the metal tube trap. It made a wretched squealing sound as it tried to free itself.

She was right about the vermin getting into the trough, but it was just a little runt that didn't know any better to stick its paw right in the bait_. _Daryl snickered, impressed. _This girl knows her shit_.

He rubbed his sore hand at the itchy cold whiskers of his chin. "You set this? How'd you know where to put it to keep out of the snow?"

She never answered. Her silence beside him had him glancing in her direction. Her face had closed up, frozen. Shiny pearls of tears glistened down her cheeks.

She kept her stoic gaze forward as she spoke, unwavering, "I can't. Will you?"

It hit him. _A baby coon. The quilt stitched from baby blankets_. His face softened along with his tone, his heart. "Sure; yeah, of course."

She sniffed, fast and resolute. "Okay. Good. At least we'll have some meat to eat tonight."

She meant for him to kill it not free it. They sloshed through the snow into the barnyard. She went into the barn while Daryl went to dismantle the trap. The coon's paw was severely mangled; infection or one defenseless night would definitely kill it off. _Might as well be stew meat_. _We're all just food for somethin._

Kneeling before the thrashing critter, Daryl readied his hands for the final twist. The woman's guttural bellows echoed from the barn, brought to him at his knees along with the sound of the axe blade slamming hollow into wood. His head hung, eyes squeezed tight, because he recognized that same need. The need to kill, chop, and destroy whatever had killed and destroyed her child.

He could tell by the way she had clammed up so tight that she'd been holding it in for a long time. Alone. With just an axe waiting to be driven into a pile of sticks. He'd wanted to do the same to the walker that got Sophia in the woods. _Just sink that fucking hatchet blade straight into some dead-walkin' asshole's snarling_ _face_. And that little girl hadn't even been his. He vowed everyday to take down as many of those gooey bastards as possible; to deplete that anger, that hurt, that failure that had already been eating away at him from losing Merle and then that little girl.

By the time he had finished the deed and reset the trap, she had begun to pitch hay. He moved as quick as he could to a barely lit corner of the barn to skin and chop their meal. It felt good to get out of the wind and take off the gloves. He rubbed his hands to keep them agile; the frostbitten fingers had no feeling in them. He barely registered their existence.

She did multiple other jobs; stacking the wood, grooming the two mares in the stalls, and feeding the rest of the livestock. She was sweating soon, dropping layers one by one until she was down to one long-sleeved work shirt and the dingy jeans she'd been wearing for five days straight.

He couldn't keep his eyes off her. He just watched her, pensive and wordless, between each cut. She never stopped, just kept moving, working, grunting, and taking swipes at the sweat trailing down her face or over her brow. She looked tired, worn, but nothing could get rid of the prettiness or the determination that stained her face. To him, it was a stupid distraction, but one he'd wished upon himself, he knew.

"It's really somethin'," he finally spoke, quiet. "You doin' this all by yourself everyday."

By this time, she was pulling up a stool, gathering new gloves for the goat milking. "I don't know anything else," she confessed. "I just keep chugging along. In winter, it's easy to maintain. It'll be harder in spring with planting and birthing season."

Daryl remembered the unfinished structure nailed into what looked like some kind of watch tower on the other side of the barn. It was positioned about a yard away from the back of the cabin and surrounded by loose wooden planks as if it had been abandoned mid-build.

"Hey, what's that tower out there?" He asked her.

Her face didn't flinch; didn't betray one dark memory. She hunkered over the goat and began her chore, answering him in a monotonous drone. "After the initial outbreak, Samuel thought it wise to build a watchtower. His father and brothers all owned acreages a few miles down the road, and they were in on the project. But one day the other guys went for supplies-wood, nails, whatnot, and they never came back." She sighed, shifting on the stool. "A few days later a gang of those zombies came through here and Sam had to put em down. His brothers, one of their wives, couple nieces. He tried to…our family," she croaked. "He tried to keep going on the tower, but,"

"I'm sorry 'bout them; your family," Daryl said. "You don't have to relive that shit."

He moved toward her, adding less distance and more awkward space. He saw her almost recoil as he came beside her. She forced herself to look up into those icicle eyes of his she'd been jabbed with before. But instead of sub-zero cold, they reflected nothing but genuine compassion and quite possibly his own pain.

_No_, she commanded him; herself. _I won't do it. I won't let you see me._ She shook him off, willing herself hard and strong again. She adjusted her posture, shaking out her long hair bunched around her neck, stuffed into her collar.

"It is what it is, ya know," she swallowed. "I'm going to strain and bottle the milk. When I'm done, we need to check on your hand. Probably be a good idea to apply a salve and redress it."

He nodded. He squeezed his bad hand into a fist. The skin felt tight, tingling and rough. "It's feeling better," he lied.

"Still," she insisted. "It'd be for the best. Especially since you want to get out of here soon."

He held out the shaved carcass, his goodwill offering. "Coon stew. You got any vegetables?"

"A whole cellar full of canned goods. Samuel was a bit of a survivalist, and you know, farm wives, canning and jarring just comes with the title." She stood, ready to pile on her layers and brave the elements again. "I'm gonna need you to shovel out the hog pen. Try to get as much snow out as possible. I'm going to take care of the milk and start the stew."

The tower kept yelling his name. The howling wind carried its timber voice to him, begging to be rediscovered; examined. Daryl couldn't resist. He tried to put his back to it, keep shoveling, but when the tower got sick of being ignored it started tapping at him harder with small creaks and groans.

It had to be at least fifty feet high; more than he imagined any group of men without cranes and industrial scaffolding to accomplish, but not any taller than any tree he'd ever climbed as a kid to escape one of his daddy's whoopings or Merle's beat-downs.

_Shame it didn't get finished_. _Would be a decent perch for walker watchin' or wolf target practice, for that matter_. He spat and dropped the shovel.

Daryl circled the simple structure like an opponent he needed to size up. He jumped on the first support plank he could reach, dangled from it. The wood did not shimmy or shake. He thought of the tears freezing on the woman's face. He heard the axe hammering, her throaty grunts echoing with each blow.

_I could do somethin' with this. Do somethin' good for her. Rid her of those wolves. Roost up here for the night until the furry fuckers get on the property_. The wind and the dropping temperature didn't intimidate him now that he had some gear. _That pack will be out early now that it knows where to gets its meal. Could be an early night._

He climbed, but in his world he was no longer climbing the questionable wood structure. It was mammoth pin oak, and he was young again, dirty and scabbed from all his trips up and down the forest towers. Instead of snow, supple leaves fell around him. Instead of cold air, he breathed in dry foliage and warm soil. The bitter cold no longer bit him. A hot sun baked him in his clothes, and he tilted his chin up to thank it.

In this childlike escape, he did not acknowledge danger. He kept clambering up every jutting branch, enjoying his agility, feeling his muscles tighten and ripple, satisfied with every successful lunge upward. Until he saw _him_, tucked in the crook of his favorite branch.

_Merle. That lousy bastard. Up in my tree whittling on my branch with Pa's switchblade he stole. _

The sight of his older brother stopped him in his tracks. He leered down at him from his royal perch.

"Well, son; you havin' fun playin house with your new Misses?"

Daryl reached for the next branch, but Merle blocked him, pressing his grimy boot heel to his forehead. Daryl struggled to remove it, but Merle had the advantage.

"You lick that pussy yet? Bet she's juicy as a Georgia peach. Hot for ya, too, beings that her ole man's worm food."

"Fuck you! It ain't like that!" Daryl roared. "Lemme up, you dick!"

Merle used the blade to spear some nastiness between his teeth, flinging it toward his little brother. "Naw." The snaps and crackles of weakening branches echoed around them. "Uh-oh, Darlyne; you better hold tight or remember howdah land."

Daryl grappled with the wood around him, clawing at Merle's denim clad leg. "If I go down, so do you, fucker."

"No, I don't think so, Farmer Daryl. Summer's over. You have a nice fall." He straightened his leg, forcing Daryl down.

Summer was over. Fall, too, for that matter. And he felt himself falling backward, new snow falling alarmingly fast, pushing him down faster. He hollered out, reaching for Merle or a wayward branch he'd wished were really there, but all he grasped was another broken beam jutting from the rocking structure and a bitter cold nail stabbing into his sore hand. The pain tore a trail of obscenities from his mouth, but he had no choice but to drop.

Greta turned from the fire. She listened. _The wind's picking up. Sounds like a grieving widow, moaning so much. _

She went back to adding the canned stewed tomatoes to the pot's simmering broth. A terrible cracking like gristly bones breaking interrupted the tune she was humming. Over the wind's cry, a man's fateful scream was louder.

She leapt from the hearth. She ran to the back of the house, her eyes dodging boards to see out into the new storm brewing. The cowboy was dangling by one hand; _the bad one_, she dully noted, nearly twenty five feet from the watchtower. The crossbow and pack of quills dropped from his back.

"What the? No, no, no," she prattled.

Piling back into her clothes, She headed out with no idea how to fix this in her head. _Snow could break his fall if he lands right. But if he lands wrong. "_Oh, Sam," she moaned.

She ran, clutching at her stomach, willing the vomit to stay down. "Sam! I'm coming!"

She swore he turned her way, heard her, his face bunched up, trying to understand her. She watched him fall, holding out a hand, stumbling, screaming, "Oh No! Sam!"

By the time she reached him he had reached ground. _He could be dead. There's only minutes; seconds really until he comes back_…Greta kicked up the snow, running as best she could manage back to the barnyard where he'd abandoned the shovel. She had it in her hand with the blade under his chin before her mind could register that he might still be alive; completely unconscious.

She stood, positioned at his throat for the kill, sobbing, immovable until her nose ran icicles and her body felt hard and brittle. The falling snow piled onto his face, smothering him like a dirt grave. She let time go, let the snow bury him deeper. This gave her time to think, pray, cry, hate the world even more.

Making the decision to put down the shovel was harder than imagining decapitating whatever he'd return as. Finally, she checked for a pulse. _Still steady and strong_. She breathed again, sniffling, but still sobbing.

She tried waking him by brushing the snow from his closed face. She tried to pull his dead weight by one arm. She attempted to lift him from the shoulders; at least sit him up, but he flopped down, heavy arms flailing to his sides.

_Snow's changing_, she noticed. _Turning into sleet_. _And the temperature's dropping fast_.

She knew the only way to move him was to lighten his load. Wrangling him out of winter gear was exhausting, but she had no time to slow down. Time was against her. Hypothermia would set in quickly and then…she shook her head wildly, pleading with him to struggle with her.

Basically unarmed with her back to the woods, she felt vulnerable. Something chilled her worse than the gathering storm. She felt watched; like the old Indian spirits of the forest had come to the edge of the trees to observe her fight with danger.

_Or something more menacing. Zombies or homicidal inbreeds or nomad survivors that wouldn't be as cordial as the cowboy. _She peered over her shoulder, waiting breathlessly for something to emerge, but all she could see was wind blowing snow and bare trees bending their submission.

Apparently, the sensation of being watched was strong. It woke the cowboy from his forced slumber. He held out his hand, fingers instinctively twitching for the crossbow, his constant companion. He grunted when it wasn't there.

She pressed her quivering lips to his ear, her eyes never leaving the trees. "Something's with us," she whispered. Her soft voice reverberated against his pulsing temple.

"I know. The wolf," he grumbled. "I can smell it."

"No way," she said aloud. But as the wind shifted she did catch the faint tinny odor of wet, bloody canine.

"Get the bow," he commanded, "hurry."

She went for it, disheartened that it was unloaded.

"Load it."

"How?" She cried out, exasperated.

It was a race, and she knew it. The animal's head ducked out of the clearing. At first, it looked as if it didn't give two craps about them. It paced and circled between the trees, only rearing its huge head to regard her with wary, are-you-still-staring-at-me glances. Its muddy snout rooted the snow like it was looking for its missing sunglasses. Greta was entranced by its immensity and beauty. Its white coat dulled grey, it still looked like the mythical beast she'd only read about in grim fairy tales.

Trying to focus, her fingers fumbled over every step he gave her on loading the bow. The wolf seemed to be granting her time, a head start to gather up the cowboy and get away. But every time she tried to jostle him and balance the weapon, the animal stared and loped a little closer.

Cowboy was shivering violently; his lips swelling and bruising like he'd kissed another man's fist. "Shoot it," he said weakly.

The wolf heard him. It understood. It was coming, snarling and licking its bared teeth. Greta screamed. She shot off the arrow and watched in stunned helplessness as it whizzed off course, missing the beast completely, lodging itself into the snow. The wolf didn't even bother to acknowledge the foiled attempt on its life. It kept running toward them.

"Oh, crap," she breathed.

_The end_. She threw herself over the cowboy, bracing for the impact of razor teeth ripping apart her flesh. His limp grip in her hair tightened, pushing her head down as he tried to peer over her. _Face what would take_ _him down, probably_. She coughed, wheezed, and squealed into his smelly flannel shirt, but just as she expected to be attacked, he forced her head back up, twisting her face to look into his.

She met the eyes of an unconquerable man. "Let's go. Now."

A crash had occurred. Not between man and machine but between two dominant beasts vying for pack leadership. The animals became a tangle of garbled snarls, yelps, and flinging blood only a few feet from them.

Greta moved, hauling the cowboy to his feet. He relied on her entirely as the chills overtook him, and he tried to collapse against her. The trek back to the cabin was excruciating with his weight caving in on her and the angry sounds of wolf fight over her shoulder. But she dragged him on one side, the again-unloaded bow in on the other.

The drifting snow actually made it easier to heave him up the few porch steps. She kicked and pushed him through the door just in time to see the livid blood-thirsty wolf, the winner, rounding the cabin, leaping for over the stairs. She crashed the door on its head, pulling down the heavy barricade as it yapped, a now sore loser, behind it.

Greta scurried for the shotgun. She stood, ready to unload if that thing even managed to get through the door or either boarded window.

Greta looked down at the cowboy. He was moving, shivering like cold death. He tried speaking, but his teeth chattered against each other, and she worried they might start chipping. She shushed him.

Despite her exhaustion, she dove to the fire. She replaced the full cook pot with another tin pot of icy water. She didn't think to sweep the house for danger. _At this point, let the devil take us_, she conceded_. _The stymied wolf outside the front door was still clawing and growling. He was trying to lift his head, probably to get a good look at how well she'd secured the cabin, but his neck was unstable, and his head crashed back onto the hard wood floor.

She came back with a large kitchen knife, slicing away at the wet clothes sticking stiff and frozen to his body. He called out, anguished by cold. "I know, I know. I'm so sorry," she panted.

She piled him with blankets and quilts, more coats, anything she could grab, then continued boiling more water until she'd dumped enough to partially fill the waiting tub. Her body felt pulled in every direction. Do this, do that, move this, find this first…

"Gotta help me now. We need to get you to the water," she told him. She assumed he nodded, but it could've been the cold shakes. Again, she squatted down, lifting him under the arms. He helped by peddling his legs backward so she could half-drag him to the bathroom. Once inside the cramped quarters, she fell backward with his head bouncing in her lap. He tried sitting up again, but she held his scraggly face in her trembling hands, her wide eyes demanding his cooperation.

"Look, we made it," she exhaled. "We're in the bathroom. Now, you have to pull yourself into the tub. You could be going into shock." She didn't really know what going into shock from hypothermia looked like. It made no sense to tell him that except that it moved him into action.

He struggled to pull his naked body into the tub. Greta shifted with him, supporting his lower back then carefully moving her hands over his granite ass, heaving him over the side. He splash-landed on his side, sloshing hot water over her clothes like the log ride at an amusement park always did.

"Perfect," she sighed. She reached in, fitting him on his back. His long body bowed and his feet dangled up and out at the front of the tub.

Her clothes were useless; cold and wet anyway. Keeping an eye so he wouldn't now drown on her, Greta peeled from her boots and every damp strip of clothing until she stood in only her britches. She pushed the tangled mop of hair hanging in her face atop her head. In the mirror above the sink, her wintery pale flesh reflected back at her, ghostly and clinging to her bones. What used to be a pleasant supple figure now looked ravaged by hunger and months of hard work.

_This is no time to be thinking about yourself_, she scolded her reflection. Her attention needed to be on the man she was determined to keep alive and useful.

Easily, she slid between the wall and the head of the tub where his head lolled on the hard porcelain. He groaned as the solace of water lapped over his skin. She grasped his shoulders, plunging him completely under. He didn't fight it. He welcomed it, squeezing his eyes against it. She held him down, holding to the iron blades protruding from his taut skin. Then wrapping her fingers carefully around his chin, she eased him to the surface.

He sucked at the air, shaking his head like a soaking barn dog. She had the soap already lathered. Smoothing his creased brow, her fingers worked steadily through his dirt-caked hair.

He was alive; eyes awake and coming alert. And questioning her with a confusion that fueled her curiosity. Her heart was still beating hard against her chest. He had to hear its chaos as she leaned into him, digging her torn nails into his scalp, scratching out the grunge and massaging deep.

His instinct to pull away from her was a mere snag. One she intended to mend. Because something buried deep inside her was being summoned forward. It took charge, led her hands to press back onto his shoulders, submerging him again until the soap lifted from his hair, forming a sudsy halo on the surface of the water.

He pushed back to the surface, blinded by the water in his eyes. Her fingers were there, wiping away the water and soothing the eyelids that flickered and jumped over darting, almost bewildered eyes. She scrubbed at the stubborn dirt clinging to his face, the overgrown whiskers pricking her fingers.

The gleam of sharp metal in her hand had him mouthing, "what are you doing?"

Her reply came out a silky whisper. "Trust me." _Like I trusted you. Into my home. Onto this farm. Into my broken life_.

She started at his throat. He held his chin steady; an assent she was not sure he'd be capable of. It should've been a rough shave with just soap and a blade, but her experienced hands worked lightly, gliding over every sharp angle of his face. His eyes tried to follow the razor, but she felt them stumbling their way up her arms, tripping over her exposed neck, until finally landing on her face. Her fractured smile invited him to stare, immobile and guarded, as she scraped his skin anew.

With all the grit and grime removed from his face, she could finally see the man he'd been before the end of the world, and she liked what she saw. Her fingers raced across his smooth stone face.

His gaze narrowed, those ever-pursed lips cracking open to oppose her next move, whatever it would be. In his wildest dreams he'd never guess her right.

Whatever was decaying inside her was being recreated; reborn at this very moment. But his hands tried to push her away; stuff her suppressed self back inside. It felt easier, less constrictive to get back behind him in the confining space between the tub and wall where she'd washed his hair. He had to tilt his head back to find her, but she eased him forward.

"Relax," she breathed.

She reached for the soft oversized sponge floating beside him. She lathered it and placed it carefully at his shoulder, watching, breathing, as the tiny suds made tracks down his tense bicep. Sponge in hand, she washed the length of his arms. They were firm arms that went on forever, hard like steel bars that could cage her and protect her like she'd protected him today. She scrubbed at his sides and under his arms until the stench of weeks-old sweat and dust dissolved.

Over the wind and the sleet and her erratic heartbeat, the hens in the coop went nuts; being ripped apart by the hungry wolves. _The wolves_. Greta sympathized with their need for consumption. She'd suddenly, unexpectedly, let something ravenous come over her. Everything she laid eyes upon was black or white. Everything she touched felt hot or cold. Her body ached, unrelentless and overcome with carnal need. Identifying with the beast was simpler than finding her human self again.

She moved the sponge across his chest where wicked scars glared back at her from the shaving mirror attached to the bath spigot. She demanded to touch each depraved slash despite the quick way he tried to brush her hand away. She washed over them, pretending to erase them because they didn't matter here. No tortured back story could make her not want this right now.

Her chest was just as damaged. There was nothing for him in her heart. She was being consumed by his flesh. She should've been ashamed, but shame was too good for her now. It was thrilling; sculpting him in the water with her bare hands, letting rage and fear and sorrow bend into desire and submitting completely to it like a witless slave.

_I'll never have this again_. The realization frightened and excited her more.

She discarded the sponge, plunging her arms to the elbows in the water, running her deserving hands over every rigid plane of him. He responded so well; eager. The mirror teased her with glimpses of his most stiff part bobbing above the ripples of water and stale soap.

_I made him that way_. But she couldn't reach him.

She moved, rushing to the side of the tub. He watched her go, unsure where he'd find her next, but she was there, beside him, facing him, kneeling; reaching in. Her fingers spread, racing down his tight abdomen that twitched under her graze. She dove into the dark tangle of hair until she clasped onto him.

He sprang upright, uttering something to her between clenched teeth. She leaned in, intent on listening, but his angry mouth clamped over hers. His grip became a vice around her neck, pulling her closer.

He filled her hand, solid and throbbing, begging for a release he'd been needing for a very long time. She abandoned the idea of pleasuring him with gentle, titillating caresses. In this time of limited amenities, she'd only be satisfied delivering him with fulfilling, hearty strokes. His unnerving disposition may have suggested no, but looking into those glacial eyes melting right in front of her, he murmured yes.

She had to breathe, fill her lungs with something more viable than him. She tore her mouth from his crushing lips, but his fist in her wayward hair controlled her, bringing her back. She indulged him a taste of her then broke free. She shoved him back against the cold porcelain tub with her free hand, holding him there. She had found a delicious pace and wanted to watch him savor it.

She loved how she forced him to grip the sides of the tub rather than her. It pleased her, feeling him buck beneath her beautiful rhythm, move with her, and moan a tune of tortured gratification. When she felt him edging toward release she held tighter, faster, until he couldn't endure another moment of the sweet, painful friction. Licking his lips and panting loudly, he gushed over her.

Closing her eyes, she slowed the tempo, allowing him to empty. Her heart found its normal beat, and she dipped her hand under the cooling water, washing him away.

Neither spoke; just breathed in the chill of the tiny room. He sat motionless in the still water, recovering from the blur of what just occurred and wondering how it got started in the first place. He knew he should say something, do something, grab her, toss her into the tub with him, anything but just sit and gulp air like a drowning man. But that's what he was doing. Drowning here. Every minute of his life he let tick by on this farm kept him closer to danger. And now _this_.

_Look what you did;_ she punished herself with the most degrading tone. _You don't even know this man_.

Quickly, she gathered her clothes at her feet, holding them to her half-naked frame. Her skin still burned from the heat they created, but her inhibitions came back, invading her fiercely. She felt exposed on the inside, and she suddenly hated herself for wanting that so much.

She tried to rush by him, but he caught her with one of those never-ending arms. She dared to look at him, but his face wore the same uncertain mask as hers. "Hey, do you, uh, want me to, uh do,"

She broke from him, shaking her head. "No. I. I'll be out there." She pointed toward the open room where she planned to make her escape.

.


	4. Chapter 4-Frost Bite

38

**Blizzard**

**Chap 4: Frost Bite**

"_**Tell the swine we will make it out alive. There's snow on your face and your razor blade…sing to me about the end of the world. Hold on to the world we all remember fighting for. There's still strength left in us yet. Hold on to the world we all remember dying for. There's still hope left in it yet…"Arise by Flyleaf**_

__Nobody spoke. No attempt at words seemed appropriate or necessary after such an incredible, distorted moment.

_What would I say?_ Greta reasoned. _Hey, I'm sorry about my perverted reaction to your amazing naked body. _

__She thought of Tippie Claiborne, the county bar whore and realized she was no better than that woman who brought home truckers and traveling laborers to screw every Saturday night. As she tended the cowboy's hand with salve for the puncture and fresh, dry bandages for the healing frost bite, she wondered where Tippie was right now.

_Probably eating the guts out of one of those electricians she favored_, she snickered.

Her smarmy smile caught his nerves.

"What?" He barked, more irritated by the shock of pain electrocuting his hand than her pretty grin.

His foulness didn't surprise her. He'd been flashing her scornful looks ever since he'd emerged from the bathroom. She shrugged, shaking away the image of a ghoulish Tippie corpse with her rib cage exploding from torn flesh and an eyeball hanging by its meat from its lonely socket.

"Nothing," she mumbled, "just thinking of people I used to know."

He grunted, but continued to avoid any more conversation.

She served him the coon stew and the few remaining biscuits she'd stored in the bread bin. He gnawed at one, scowling at the way it resisted every bite. She sat across from him on the sofa, again watching him eat; ready to intervene or assist like she thought she needed to.

"The biscuits get soft if you soak them in the broth," she told him.

He huffed something unintelligible at her, prompting her to talk more. "I can bake more tomorrow if you'd like. I,"

_Aw fucking shut up!_ His nerves had been pulled so tight he thought he'd snap with one more of her pleasant generosities. He heaved his half-eaten boulder into the fire where the flames consumed it, turning it to dust.

"Seriously?" She scoffed. "Somebody could've eaten that! They weren't that bad. And I said I'd make more."

"Suit yourself, but I'm outta here at first light tomorrow," he growled. And he meant it. No more hanging around here playing House like Merle accused him of.

He watched her closely for any sudden change of expression; any hint that what they'd just experienced had changed her, the situation, in any way.

But her eyes only narrowed, her tone taking on caution, disapproval. "Oh, no, I really don't recommend that, Cowboy. In case you haven't noticed, you now have a hole in your hand and a good size concussion from that little stunt you pulled out there."

Her concern for him only made him dig down deeper for his most horrible self. Nobody, not even Carol, stood a chance against _that_ bastard. _She'd be better off alone. I can't give her anything but more shit to worry about and another mouth to feed. _

His eyes had frozen up again like slivers of ice along a gutter. They fell on her, slicing her mercilessly. "I hope you know what happened in there doesn't mean we're goin' steady."

She almost choked on her last bite of stew. "What?"

"It don't mean I'm stickin' around."

He'd done it. He lit that fire and there was no putting it out now. His surly little mouth cocked in her direction had her flying from her seat. She stood, indignant and proud to be on her own. "I wouldn't want you stickin' around if you were the last man standing."

He had the gall to chuckle, and somewhere, in that weird place that had opened up inside her, she laughed back. "Lady, I am the last man standing in your world."

She couldn't suppress it. She did laugh because he spoke the God's honest truth, and the fear of it tickled her. "Not for long," she said above her laughter.

He was up now, too, moving into her space, towering over her like he enjoyed doing, putting his mean finger in her grinning face. "You got that right!" He yelled. "I don't need this shit!"

He paced off, but she waited, knowing his temper would bring him back. "You don't need me or anyone else! God knows why you had your hands all over me! Why ya didn't just let me die out there!" He threw his arms out, enveloping the room. "You got it all figured out here on your own, _Farm Wife_!"

She just stared at him, letting his words slam into her, dent her metal plated chest. _Because remember I have no heart, _she reminded herself_. _

Daryl shoved past her to one of the boarded windows, wishing there was a place to go that wasn't covered in fucking snow. He looked back at her. _That goddamn smile; so broken and pretty and…and_…

"Why are you so angry?" She asked, too fragile. _He lost his people, too_. "Is that what you think? That I don't need anybody? That I've been fine here with just the goats and the chicken and the hogs?" Her head started to shake, then her shoulders, then every part of her quivered. "You have no freakin' idea."

Pain set her into motion. She rampaged the room, gathering dirty dishes, adding more logs to the fire, refolding blankets, ranting, "Sure, I may have just got you off in my bathtub, but you don't know anything about me! What I've been through these last six months! What existence I have to look forward to until somebody cures this…this…disease or whatever it is. I lost my husband!"

Daryl's eyes followed her around the room. He watched her touch everything in it, hoping like hell she'd miss the baby quilt he'd tossed away the night before. But she didn't. He winced when her quaking hands scooped it up, pressed it to her lips. She breathed in its familiar powdery scent.

"I lost my son." The tears streamed. And sobbing ensued. And Daryl had no reaction but to steel himself against it, look away cold. _I lost Carol and Sophia and Merle and Rick and Carl and aw fuck them_ _and the assholes that took em. She'd be better off getting over it quick. Stop cryin' about shit she can't change and folks she can't ever get back. _

She cried out frantically to herself. _Greta, what on earth are you doing_? _These are not the rational thoughts and actions of a person with no soul left. _

She headed for the stairs, suddenly unconcerned about boiling water to wash dishes or keeping herself in check.

His final stab cut through her back like the machete still lying in her bed. "And my name's Daryl; not Sam. Don't call me no dead man's name."

_So he'd heard me. Just before he fell._ _When I'd lost my mind_. She ignored him, holding Griffin's quilt to her chest, letting his scent perforate her pajamas as she rounded the banister.

For the last time, Daryl flipped around on the couch. He stared at the fire he kept stoking, trying to stay warm and concentrate on his revenge. _Som' bitchin' wolves_. _Trying to finish me off. And tearin' up that_ _henhouse. And her_, he huffed, missin' that shot; _wasting one of my arrows_.

_The woman_. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind wandered right over to her. The smell he first encountered in the house, her pretty pleasing smile, her grit; the way she gripped him. How that mouth tasted. How bad he needed that moment and how she'd been able to see and fill that that need so clearly. How it felt to hurt her.

All these thoughts just distracted him from the real issue. The wolves. _I'd get up an' leave now if it wasn't for…_

"For what, Farmer Daryl?" Merle leered at him from his standing post by the fire. "This bitch got you whipped already?"

"Fuck you!" Daryl pouted. "How'd you get in here anyway? Got the place locked down like Fort Knox."

"Ole Merle has his ways, lil brother," Merle clucked. He stepped around the living room, feigning an approval that had never found its way straight to Daryl. "Not bad," he whistled. "Gotta nice little place here for you and the new Misses. Pretty soon she'll be shittin' out some baby Daryls…or maybe some lil Merles."

He was in Daryl's face in a flash, his rotten breath more threatening than his presence. "Whaddaya say lil' brother? Wanna share?"

_All_ _my life I've either been cowerin' from this asshole or fightin him off. I'm done with this shit_. Daryl rolled over, jerking the pillow up over his ear. "Get lost."

Above him, Greta paced the floor. She'd cried herself dry for the night. Yearning for Griffin, she'd resisted crossing the hall to his nursery. It was a room she'd barely entered since summer, but she missed the soothing blue paint and the comforting shadows his elephant nightlight had let guard the walls. Now, shadows meant something far more sinister and deadly.

She'd checked off the calendar box. _Only a day until December 31__st__. I have exactly one day to finish with crying; feeling sorry for myself. There's going to be some real changes around here, _she insisted_. _

Then there was _him_. "Daryl," she said. "Daryl?" She repeated, a bit more smug. "Real redneck of a name, that's for sure." It satisfied some shallow part of her to be so small.

She crawled into bed thinking, _if only _**he**_ knew. If only he could see what is burned into my mind; what will never leave my memory until the day I'm dead and buried. _

On her back, she squinted in the dark, peering at the ceiling she'd watched Samuel and his brothers raise. She wondered what had happened. Why it felt like Daryl hated her, but in the bathroom, he'd held her tighter than she held him, forcing her to kiss him. That hate, the hurt he'd put upon her, it wasn't doing what it was supposed to. She was supposed to hate him back.

Her hands remembered his shoulders, the long trek down his slippery wet arms, his nervous shuddering body responding so violently, the eyes that killed her and brought her back to life all in one look. Something else burned in her, and it wasn't her temper. She bit her lip.

_Can't hate a man I want so much_.

Daryl was relieved when dawn finally broke. He'd spent his dreaming hours feigning off shape-shifting walkers that morphed into eerie caricatures of his brother then transformed completely into blood-thirsty wolves.

The woman made another hearty breakfast, serving him with silence and the pleasant smile he expected, but something had changed about her. The light behind her eyes had grown from an untamed spark to something feral, out of control. She seemed different. How she moved and demanded his eyes constantly. Of course, she didn't give the time enough to wonder on it.

"Figured you'd be gone by now," she said, a bit saucier than intended.

He was finishing the last of the ham steak, smearing it around in the runny eggs. "Nah, we got work to do first."

She stopped short, looking down at him from her place gathering the used plates and utensils. "Oh _we_ do?"

He nodded. "Yeah, we need to check out the damage to your chickens. Move the coop if there's anything left of em,"

"I've already surveyed the damage getting the eggs for breakfast. The wolves took out one of the roosters and a few of the sicklier hens. Really smashed up the egg hatch. If you are sticking around for now then you are right; we've got big work to do."

They worked with renewed purpose despite the freezing rain that pelted them constantly and the wind that threatened to solidify them in their tracks.

_When will this storm end_? He'd nearly shouted, but didn't dare complain to a woman that went about her daily business as if the sun was brightly shining and all was calm in the world.

She did her barn chores while Daryl tracked wolf prints to the edge of the forest clearing. Interestingly enough, the first wolf, their predator, had taken the same exact path, print for print, as it had the night before he had first arrived. Its competitor, the wolf that had attacked in the nick of time, had come from yards across; its tracks leading him to believe that it had spent some time wandering the property, maybe watching them, _guarding over us_?

_No way_. Daryl rejected the idea as quickly as it entered his fool head. _The wolves are hungry. Reclaiming their space. Taking out what stands between them and the hunt. And vying for pack leadership._ It reminded him of the relationship he had with Merle. Someone always going for the throat, proving to be Alpha Male.

Daryl sifted the snow, looking for blood, but gave up too easy when his frostbitten hand began to ache. It was healing slowly, regaining some feeling. That was a good sign, but it made for a shitty day working in the cold.

He found her in the barn, pitching the axe blade at a pretty thick branch.

"Here, lemme do that," he offered.

She threw him a wary glance over her shoulder. "No thanks. I've got it."

He bit at his lip, watching her for a moment before reaching for the arm she was just about to swing. "Look, you're only cuttin' enough wood for each day. If you let me chop for awhile, I'll get ya enough wood for at least a week. You can go milk goats or somethin."

"But your hand,"

"Hand's better," he said, and to prove it, he removed the glove, flexing the pins and needles from it.

Sullen, but intrigued with this seemingly subdued cowboy, she took him up on the offer and handed him off the axe. She gathered the milking supplies, but the mare's frightened whinny distracted her.

She went to the dappled horse, removing her gloves, and soothing the restless beauty's mane with long, slow strokes. "What's wrong, Maizie? Hm? What's got you so upset?"

"Wolf's prob'ly got 'er spooked," Daryl suggested. He was setting up the logs for the splinter. She watched him as he sloughed off the heavy winter coat and poncho.

"Oh? You think so?" She asked, only mildly interested.

Her eyes were on him, and although she really was concerned about her animal's well-being she was more interested in watching him peel off layer after layer of the gear until he stood, poised, down to the long sleeved flannel shirt and coveralls. He'd rolled up the sleeves and bunched the coveralls at his waist, apparently ready to work up a good sweat wielding that axe. Greta smiled sheepishly knowing that she was going to enjoy this gratuitous show of muscle and manhood.

"Yeah," he grunted, taking the first swing. "Animals sense that stuff."

"I see," she murmured.

He said something else, more talk about strange animal behavior, but Greta was oblivious. That thing that had been conceived the night before was kicking and spinning inside her. It wanted loose. With every lift and swing of the axe, he made the same sounds he'd made for her in the tub. His arms rippled and stretched, and her body went crazy.

He had no idea of the ruckus he was causing in her. His mind was on the settling of scores. He'd needed something rote and routine to do while he plotted the next move; how to take out the wolves especially since they were moving during the day. The most obvious strategy he hatched was to go on the offensive; go on the hunt rather than just waiting them out. Hearing the angsty wind howl and whine, he knew getting the woman to go along with it was only going to be one obstacle.

Despite her two meals a day rule, she fed Daryl a scanty lunch of canned green beans and stewed tomatoes and canned meat with a side of jarred apricots.

"You're bigger than me and you need more fuel," she answered him when he questioned her with unsure silence. "Just wish I had more to offer. Gotta ration for the rest of winter though."

he accepted her food, muttering meek thanks. He pushed aside the burdensome feeling he'd always wrestled with even before the world went to shit. The feelings his Pa and brother had beaten into him as a young boy. When simple, everyday things like hunger and discomfort and hurt were just another irritation, interrupting someone's selfish existence. Daryl almost snickered at the irony of how life had come full circle and those same easy-to-fix issues now troubled him somethin' fierce.

His determination grew severe with every bite, watching her continue on without a single serving. _This is why I got to get those wolves. I can't be a taker_ _anymore_. _If I can rid her of these wolves; teach her how to_ _protect herself from any more attacks, she'll have fur and meat and safety_. It satisfied him enough to think he could give her something in return for all she'd done to keep him on his feet; that she'd be safe without him. _Be okay_ w_ithout her husband_.

After lunch, they made a clearing in the barn and resettled the half-destroyed coop and its terrified occupants. He stood back, watching, as she calmed them by scattering feed along the new floor. She called the clucking hens by name; _Cinderella, Esmeralda, Ginny, and Josephine,_ and they hesitantly emerged from their cozy little places, trying to trust again.

"You name them?" Daryl snickered.

"Of course," she said. "They all have their own special markings so I can keep em straight."

Looking closer, he did notice the one she pointed out as Ginny had a deformed claw. And the one she named Cinderella was by far the most homely and scrawny.

_Of course she names them. These animals aren't just her source of living, but they're her companions_. _The only living things she's had to rely on for food and company_. Daryl considered. It made the situation with the wolves that much more dire.

He had started to brood again when the woman approached him, shedding her heavy winter clothes. "Hey, how about a game of Chase the Chicken?" She suggested.

He shook his head, almost shrugging her off. He had more important tasks to attend to; not play barnyard games with a bunch of noisy chickens.

"Oh, come on. It's actually fun. We used to play it all the time as kids," she winked. "Afraid I'll catch Cinderella first?"

_A challenge_. She knew where to get him. And her face, so lit and playful, took him back to those carefree summers of Kick the Can and Ghosts in the Graveyard with the other poor kids from the area. He pulled at the coat, tossing it somewhere behind him.

"Okay, so, what? Just try to grab 'er or?" He wondered.

She was tying her shiny dark hair into a high ponytail, plucking at her overgrown bangs, readying herself for some good competition. "Yep. Pretty simple, hunh?"

At her start, the race was on. The other hens seemed to sense the nature of their play, and they danced and hopped around the barn floor, a few screeching while the others clucked happily. Daryl kept his keen gaze on the skittering Cinderella amidst feathers flying and dust and chicken feed kicked up into his face. He kept his footing, always within fingertips reach, but the measly little clucker pecked in her defense, traveling faster for the safety of her coop.

The woman was adept at dodging the frantic hens that ran aimlessly, making a kind of chaos she seemed to enjoy greatly. Her whooping laughter and fowl calls filled his head. They bashed into each other twice. Each time she recovered with bursts of real laughter, giving him a hard shove. He wasn't sure how to respond to her except to move away and keep his focus on the frightened hen. But she was always there; in his path, goading him with small pushes or insignificant bumps from her hip.

The woman found a goalie spot in front of the coop, keeping guard and batting Cinderella away from its opening. The hen squawked its desperation.

"No fair, Cindy!" She shouted. "You can't go and hide!"

Daryl laughed, and the woman straightened, her face falling still. A tiny smile played at the edges of her lips, her eyes skewering him with slight surprise.

He stopped. "What?"

"You're smiling," she said. Her head cocked, contemplating him.

"Yeah, so?" He barked.

"Yeah, so it's nice. Unexpected.," she confessed softly.

Everything about him went uncomfortable. His jaw tensed and some kind of pain shot up from the scabbing hole in his hand to his elbow. He winced.

She stepped forward, her healing hand outstretched. "Daryl, I,"

He turned away from her quickly. "Stop."

She did. Only inches from him, letting the chicken feed dust settle over her used-to-be-white snow boots. She watched, breathless, as he effortlessly scooped up the bewildered Cinderella that had came to his still feet looking for a safe base. Looking her in the eye, he gave the flailing hen's neck a graceful twist. Both barely flinched at the crackle and snap of thin bone.

Daryl handed her the limp chicken before reaching for his coat.

She smiled, shrugging, "winner, winner, chicken dinner?"

She knew he wanted to laugh at the absurdity of her comment, but he was trying so hard to regress back to the surly Survival Man he'd come to her as. The game had been short-lived, but fun, and she wanted to keep the light-hearted momentum going.

"Hey, I know! Why don't we take Maizie out for a ride?" She beamed. "She's been cooped up in the barn for days, and she really does love to hurdle the snow."

Daryl thought of his last experience with a horse; how it had gotten spooked on his quest for Sophia. He'd lost control and spent an afternoon clawing a ravine, grappling with the ghost of Merle, and almost getting himself chewed in the process.

"Naw, I'm no good with horses," he admitted.

She wasn't going to accept that. "Don't worry about it. I'm an expert rider. If you can hold on you'll be just fine."

He conceded under one condition. "Lemme load up the bow. And you get armed, too. If we're gonna be away from the property we need to be prepared for anything."

She agreed, thinking to pack a few edible provisions along with strapping on Samuel's old gutting knife. While Daryl gathered his gear, she saddled and prepared the horse. Maizie whinnied anxiously, impatient for her long-awaited jaunt through the woods.

The cold was exhilarating. It packed her lungs, filling her with life again. The large exquisite snowflakes, each as unique as the stars in the night sky, flew into her face, blinding her as Maizie galloped at full speed around the perimeter of the farm.

Greta hooted her delight, gripping the reigns, and prodding her pretty mare to gain more ground before hurdling each mounting drift like an experienced show horse. Her owner had trained her well.

Greta tilted her chin to the grey sky as it cried its icy tears, but she smiled wide; no fear, no worry; just the freedom of a caged bird soaring fast and low to the ground.

She loved the way Daryl held her, his arms clasped firmly around her bundled waist. She could turn her cheek and glimpse his face. He gasped for breath against their high velocity. His eyes, so startling blue against the drab scenery, squinted against the storm. His face was stripped of any reservation, grinning tight-lipped, but content.

_If only I could see the deer congregating in the clearing. That would make this moment perfect_.

Maizie sensed her desire to be near the trees. She wheeled around smoothly, forcing her stranger passenger to hold tighter, he whistled and chuckled between his teeth. Greta smirked, giggling low.

"You better hold on, Cowboy!" She warned him, yelling against the wind.

But as they entered the eternally white forest, Maizie had lost her steam and was ready for a slow tread. As invigorating as winter could be, it also slowed everything down much faster. Greta respected that truth. She sat back, leaning into the strong man behind her, reveling in the moment of unintentional closeness.

They passed under the low-hanging branches burdened with layers of snow and ice, both silent and observant. Daryl's eyes seemed to be following some kind of print while she gazed all around her, taking in the bright winterscape surrounding them. It felt like the forest's huge eye was solely upon her, watching her every move while the earth froze still.

Maizie saw it; the busy red cardinal flitting around a branch. It called to its mate, but only the horse puffed in response. Greta had only seconds to ponder the mare's reply before Daryl's anxious voice broke through her peaceful trance.

"Go! Go!" He commanded. He kicked at the horse's sides, using Greta's arms as puppet strings to manipulate the reigns. "Go!"

She couldn't move fast enough. Whatever slammed into them had been a speeding blur, blindsiding her, knocking her completely from Maizie's back. Daryl fell, too, making a terrible winded sound. She felt herself roll, snow filling her mouth, her nostrils, sliding down her neck and filling her coat.

She felt Maizie land next to her, close enough to crush her, but the snow caught the horse's impact. The mare recovered quickly, wheezing and snorting, terrified by something coming. Greta tried to reach for the swinging reigns, but Daryl was over her, pushing her down into the smothering snow as something whizzed above them.

Its snarl echoed around her. Her rationalizing mind had one second to think, _the wolf. It can't be_.

But it was. In its frenzy to attack, the wolf had overestimated its jump, hitting into a tree, and landing in a dazed-awake furry heap of flying snow. Greta knew she had moments to regain her footing, but there would be no way to outrun the beast. Her neck twisted, searching for Maizie, but the horse had turned back, galloping for the clearing.

Daryl had her by the arm, hauling her to her feet. She sunk into the ground, but was able to balance herself enough to stand and face the wolf that was also regaining its senses. Greta's strained pants mimicked her bursting heart. She watched as Daryl positioned his bow, taking aim at the great grey beast.

"Go!" He blasted her, pushing her away. "Get the fuck outta here already!"

Her head shook. She stuttered _no,_ but he pushed her again before letting the trigger go. The arrow spun, splitting the air. It landed, piercing the charging wolf's shoulder. It fell back, letting out an anguished yelp. To Greta, it sounded more angered than hurt.

And it was getting up despite the arrow jutting from its flesh. The beast hurled snarls and frothy spit, baring the teeth of a violent predator.

"It's fucking rabid," Daryl announced, the fear in his voice scaring her more than his revelation. "Get up a tree. Now!"

_Up a tree_? "Wwhha?" She sputtered as he moved around her, making fast tracks to the nearest tree behind them. He was pulling her by the sleeve. It was no use. Her leg cramped. Lifting it above the drift at the trunk of the tree was nearly impossible. She cried out, anguished, grabbing at the calf muscle that seared hot pain against her skin. If she could have tore it out she would've.

_It's no use. It's gonna get me_. She panted. But Daryl was still there beside her, unsnapping the fishing knife from her leg holster with his bare hands. She screamed as the animal leaped at them, and Daryl flipped the knife. It sliced through the snowflakes then stuck with a weird thud into the wolf's chest. Again, it fell back, yelping and grappling with the protruding handle.

Daryl nimbly began reloading the bow, but all Greta could do was stare at him in shocked terror.

"Gawdamn it, will you get up the tree," he seethed.

"What are you going to do?" She gasped.

"What the fuck does it look like, woman? I'm gonna kill the bastard."

"No!" She roared. She knew they only had seconds before it charge them again, but fear had rendered her hysterical. If he missed or the wolf overpowered the hit again, it would maul him. And then…the disease would take him, and she clung to him. "NO!"

He yanked away, taking a swipe at her with an agitated arm. "Get away! Just climb!"

She finally erupted. "You, you obstinate _asshole_!" She gripped his coat collar, putting her terrified owly eyes inches from his sneering face. "You're the only person I know anymore! I can't lose you!"

His hostile eyes narrowed on her. He licked at his lips, not even considering what he'd just heard. There was no time. The infected beast was coming at them again like a relentless machine. He aimed the bow, pulled the trigger, but the wolf's impact was ferocious, jarring them both like a car crash. The arrow spun, uncontrolled, into the distance.

Greta rolled onto her front. She clawed at the snow, feeling the weight of the writing wolf press her down. She was the weaker; the easier kill. It sensed that, and it intended to go at her with all its vicious might. Its teeth were like razors at the back of her neck, the kill shot, but the fur-lined hat and riding layers of winter gear cushioned the bite.

She heard her own wails and Daryl's desperate grunts as he beat at the wolf with the stock of his weapon. It was clawing, tearing at the fabric, and feigning off the man's blows with gnashing teeth.

_It's gonna get me. He's going to have to kill me again. I'll be like Dead-Walking Samuel with the broken neck, his head lolling to one side, biting into our baby's little body. And Daryl will be like heroic me, pulling the knife from the wolf and jabbing it into my skull like I did Zombie Sam and then plunging it into Griffin's…_

"Oh my God!" Her scream peeled back Daryl's skin. He was sure her blood would be spraying him at any second, but the wolf just kept tearing at her, its foaming muzzle caked with fuzzy lining and shreds of her clothing.

_I've got to reload_. But he knew every second he stopped distracting the wolf would lead closer to her death.

From the corner of his eye, Daryl spied another white blur. Much bigger than a chasing snow hare and stealthier than an abominable snow walker. He spun around, giving the attacking wolf a massive kick to the side, but the wolf responded by snagging his leg and shaking him onto his back.

_The fucker's strong, I'll give it that. At least it'll kill us both and nobody will have to kill anybody twice_. _It wants her first, but I'm the better kill_. _Alpha Male_.

"Come on, motherfucker!" He hollered, wriggling his leg, agitating the beast. "Come get some!"

He heard it first, running, its silent paws making tiny dents in the snow, reverberating into his brain. Then, he smelled it; that wet dog fur tainting his nostrils, and Daryl braced for the impact of another set of steel jaws clamping down on his skull.

But he heard the warning growl above him and snow fell into his face. His eyes jerked open. He found himself under the belly of another great white wolf, but this one stood above him, its protective stance shielding him from what he knew would happen next.

_The wandering wolf. The attacker from last night_. Daryl's first instincts were right. It _had_ been there, watching, protecting the property, warding off the sick wolf in time for them to escape into the cabin.

The rabid wolf attacked without hesitation. It abandoned the thrashing, shrieking woman to fend off its new opponent with a new, brutal vengeance. Daryl didn't think. He moved, rolling onto his knees, and dragging at the woman by the arms. She struggled to get on her knees, but the cramp in her leg put her back on the ground.

She cried out, sobbing now, but Daryl refused to let her weakness be their demise. He bent, scooped her up, and stomped into the snow. The wolves at his back were fighting like crazed lunatics. He knew this time only one would walk away. He hoped like hell it would be the guardian. He couldn't leave the farm unless it was.

38


	5. Chapter 5-Bitter Truth

50

**Blizzard**

**Chap 5: Bitter Truth**

"_**I see I never really got it right. I'm always wrapped up in things I cannot win. You are the antidote that gets me by; something strong like a drug that gets me high. What I really meant to say is I'm sorry for the way I am. I never meant to be so cold. Maybe in a different light you could see me stand on my own again. I never really wanted you to see the screwed up side of me that I keep locked inside of me so deep…" So Cold by Crossfade**_

"Do you think it's dead?" She wondered aloud, but barely above a whisper. She sat across from him in her obligatory corner of the couch, staring straight ahead at the fire. The flames licked at the tin pots filled with water she intended for her bath.

Daryl lapped at the slick chicken grease coating his fingers. He tossed the last of Cinderella's picked over bones into the roaring fire.

"The rabid one, I mean," she emphasized, turning to look at him; get a quicker response.

Daryl shrugged. "Dunno. But I'll find out tomorrow if the storm lets up. I'll check the tracks. Maybe go back into the woods."

Her face lit with panic. Her body shuddered at the thought. "No. If it's alive it will attack again. Worse, if the other wolf has been bitten, there will be two infected animals on your scent,"

"The other wolf is prob'ly infected," he assured her. "It was bit last night during their first scuffle. Chances are the rabies hasn't worked its poison yet. But it will soon enough. I'm gonna haffta put either one or both of em down. You won't be safe til I do."

Greta knew this. Living on a farm near the woods, she'd seen Samuel kill infected critters from time to time. But now it was a different time and a different situation before the animals were reclaiming territory and staking claim to her livestock. _And me_…

She also knew Daryl would've been out there with the shotgun right now if it wasn't for the fire, and the good hot meal they'd shared, and her nerves so shaken and bruised. He seemed a bit rattled himself, but she suspected it was just an ego adjustment. Not being able to fight off the wolf. Not being able to check her wounds sufficiently like he'd wanted because she was too busy tending the terrified horse, feeding the livestock, and filling his belly.

They'd fought about how she was pretending like nothing happened as she limped across the barn, making sure each animal had feed for the night while Daryl stood guard with the gun at the door. He told her a rabid wolf would stop at nothin' for blood, and she was being a damn fool; putting them both at risk.

"How's your leg?" He asked, his eyes indicating to the calf she had outstretched toward the fire.

She ignored the perfunctory pleasant questions they'd be passing back and forth all evening. She needed to get to the meat of the matter. "You saved me today."

She did it to goad him because she liked the fire in his voice; the passion his temper was made of. That thing inside her was frozen stiff scared, replaying the afternoon's events. Only his heat could mobilize it again.

His reply did not disappoint her. "No, I didn't," he spat. "The white wolf saved you. My leg was 'bout to be used as a chew toy by that rabid som'bitch. Don't go pinning me as some hero."

She gazed at him with those huge round eyes, the fire casting eerie shadows across her face. It made her look more haunted than he'd ever seen her. "Daryl, you carried me back here. You helped get Maizie back into the barn. I couldn't have asked for much more."

The pained expression she'd been wearing away from his face was back. He scowled at her, shaking away any confirmation she could give him. "Those wolves are still out there. I didn't do shit," he uttered.

He stood, reaching into the fire. With the mitts over his hands, he hauled one of the heavy pots to the bath, dumping its contents into the cold tub. She followed; slow, stiff, and limping still on her sore leg.

She peered into the tub. "Hmm; could use another pot full. I prefer it a bit deeper. Would you mind bringing the other?"

"I'll get it," he said, squeezing past her in the cramped space.

The water smelled warm. Its heat clashing with the porcelain tub's chill raised an evanescent steam that welcomed her to dip in. She pulled the clingy, damp sweater over her head, rustling the ponytail at the back of her head. Greta pulled her hair through the band, tying a makeshift knot that left stray tendrils to curl at her neck. She eased out of the ill-fitting bra that has once shelved her so perfectly before her body began to dwindle.

Daryl reentered the bathroom with the new pot, but stopped short at the sight of her bare back facing him. He didn't mean to notice the red swollen marks where the wolf had almost cut completely into her flesh.

_That's gonna smart_, he thought, nibbling at his lip.

"Go ahead," she instructed him. "Dump the water." And he quickly added the fresher, hotter water, thankful for something to do other than just drink in her curves.

"You're, uh, pretty marked up," the awkward stutter came out in full force, "on your, uh, back."

She was bent, stripping from her warm knitted booties and wool socks. "I can feel them," she said absently. "They kind of burn. I can't imagine how they will feel hitting that water."

He scratched at his scalp, trying to decide where to be. She was talking to him as if he belonged in the room, like she'd undressed in front of him plenty of times, and he should be used to it. But he wasn't.

Easing from her stiff jeans, she sensed his trepidation. She mentioned over her shoulder, "you know, by the smell of ya, you could use a washing yourself."

"Just washed up last night," he mentioned gruffly.

The memory of the previous night's _washing_ was still very much cluttering his mind. Remembering it along with watching her slip from her thin baby blue panties stirred a tremendous need that threatened to overpower him. It was stronger than the hunt and gather instinct he'd fully embraced after the world blew apart. He recognized it from last night. When she'd slid her wet hands down his arms, when she'd gripped him so tight, and when her tongue had entered his mouth. In that small space of time, she'd shown him something about himself that he didn't want to admit was there. He wanted it again. He couldn't even deny it. _Hell, who wouldn't?_

He couldn't help but watch as she eased into the water. She seethed at the sting from the raw cuts. Adjusting, she put her back to the front of the tub, nestling between the spigot and faucet handle that had remained cold and unused since summer. Once settled comfortably beneath the water, she closed her eyes.

"Well, you could use another," she sighed. "You should take advantage of the hot water now."

"Whaddaya mean, _now?_"

She reveled in his shock, but knowing everything usually turns to discontent with him, she put her hands above water, showing him her innocence. "I'll behave. Hands to myself, I promise."

Tongue in cheek, she stifled a pathetically girly giggle. _The idea is to have your hands on me_.

To her, this wasn't a game. It was living again. She could still breathe, eat, work, sleep; all the machine qualities that came with being alive and still being human. She'd told him she could go along with those mindless tasks in order to be a part of the world when it would be put back together, but that was before he woke her sleeping self. What she wanted was to feel and, yes, live again. She wanted desire and need and rage and happiness. She'd even take the occasional hurt if it meant someone to have it with, and he was proving to be her final chance at that.

She felt him tensing, battling back and forth between what she knew he really wanted and whatever was keeping him from joining her. Challenging him seemed to do the trick in the barn. Perhaps she'd try again. Really dig on him this time.

She put her eyes on him, dark with dare. "For such a tough guy you really have no clue, Cowboy."

_Aw, fuck it_. He could no longer object to the twitch and stir in his pants at the sight of her moving fluid under the water. He pulled off his shirt, suddenly unconcerned about the scars wrapped around his body that had bothered him so much the night before.

He stepped in at the other end of the tub, facing her. His mouth was drawn into a tight seam. His hard jaw jutted toward her, confronting her, proving to her that he could be just as shameless and edgy as she. When she broke the stare to take in every inch of his body with slow, deliberate scrutiny, he knew she was winning.

When he sat down, he was surprised at how well they fit together in the fixed space. She enjoyed his play at apathy; how he snuck her indifferent glances and only smirked when she danced her pointed toes along his smooth chest.

When her calf seized again, she cried out, jerking her leg back. But Daryl held her ankle, gently straightening her at the knee. She was tightening, fighting the spasm. He rubbed her skin, kneading into the aching muscle, relieving the blazing burn of pain until he felt her relax.

"How's that?" He asked.

"Wonderful," she murmured. "I pulled something falling off that horse."

"Mmhm," he agreed.

His massage went deep; his calloused hands clever and adept. He made her lusty and drowsy for sleep.

"Daryl, who did you lose?" She asked him quietly, almost ominously in her somnolent state.

He flinched a bit, his eyes dimming, but he swallowed hard, steeling himself against their flashing faces and answered. "Friends mostly. There was a group I was travelin' with from Atlanta. Other survivors like me and my brother, Merle. Merle I lost pretty early on in the trouble. I don't even know if he's dead or alive." He gulped, looking away as if looking for Merle out a window that didn't exist. "Don't even know why I care. The guy was an asshole to me my whole life. Him and my pa. But my pa's dead, and I never knew my momma."

"You care because despite the past, he's the only one you had, right?" She gently offered. "No other family?"

He shook his head.

She prodded further. "Any special lady friend or…?"

_Carol. _"Carol. She was a friend; a good woman. It wasn't like that though. She lost her husband. Then her daughter ran off, and I tried to help find 'er. I knew that feeling of losing the only person you had left. I'm pretty sure I was the only one holding out any hope after a few days, but that turned out to be bullshit, too. Found 'er in a barn; turned into one of those flesh-eaters."

It was her turn to wince. She didn't know Carol from the man on the moon, but she knew Carol's exact pain. "And what happened to Carol? Did you get separated? Is she still with the rest of the group?"

"There is no _rest of the group_," Daryl spat. "We got overrun by walkers. Carol's dead. Or should I say one of em. She was one of the first to get bit before we could even react. I just jumped on my bike and took off. The few I saw gettin' away went in the opposite direction the map pointed us in. I stayed on course, picked up trucks along the way to haul my bike, and this is where I got dumped."

Greta wagged her head, incredulous. "Stayed the course on your bike completely alone. Like _Easy_ _Rider_. Except only one man." She studied him carefully, contemplating. "Hmm. I guess I'd take you more for Peter Fonda's Wyatt rather than Hopper's Billy."

Daryl chuckled. "I like that movie, but I don't see myself as either of em. I'm just…me. Youngest of the no-good Dixon brothers."

She smiled, playful and sweet. "Just Lone Wolf Daryl Dixon trekking 'cross country through the Zombie Apocalypse and gets stranded in little ole Richland, Nebraska, where he stumbles onto Hatterly Farm. I should be so lucky."

His face grew taut, pensive. "People always call loners the Lone Wolf, but there ain't no such thing. See, wolves are pack animals. The Cherokee believe that wolves symbolize teaching and courage and strength, but mostly loyalty to the group. They believe the wolf teaches man how to find your place in the pack and keep one mate throughout your life."

"Do you believe in that?" She asked, genuinely curious.

"Guess maybe I do a little. But a Cherokee might tell me I got more ta learn about all that cuz I lost my courage, broke from the pack instead of stickin around and fightin. Now, here I am, stranded and fightin off wolves. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe it's someone bigger 'an me tryin to tell me somethin."

"Yeah, maybe so," she murmured. _Yeah, maybe so, Daryl Dixon._

She didn't know if it was the warm water swirling around her body, the soothing touch of his massage, or the way he had just opened up to her that made her crave more closeness. She ventured to think it was a great combination of the three with maybe a scoop of her own growing attraction added in making a good recipe for desire.

Greta stood, dripping and cold. She turned her back to him then lowered herself back into the water, placing herself directly into his lap. It was as if he had been waiting for her all along, the way he pulled her down and back, resting her head against his shoulder, and wrapping his arms around her. He held her for only a moment before leaning her forward, tracing along her back with the sponge where the wolf had slashed, but not completely broken the skin.

"I'mma clean these cuts," he croaked, his voice lodged in his throat.

She said nothing, but tucked her knees under her chin compliantly.

He rubbed along the tracks cautiously as if the red marks would burn up the tender fiber of the sponge and sear his fingertips. She enjoyed his carefulness. It brought her to such a cool frenzy; the kind she could control but definitely not stop.

When the cleansing stopped, so did her breathing. His hands had no restraints binding them. He'd let them go, trembling; rounding her shoulders, down her arms, his fingers sliding down her neck, mimicking the exact path she'd followed on his body the previous night.

_How complex,_ she remembered thinking. _From brooding to enraged to nervous and so sweet_. He was a torrent of emotion that nobody had dared tap into until now. _All these years pent up in that body_. A body she was going to enjoy tonight no matter the cost tomorrow.

She felt for his hands, held them; their fingers entwined. Without his hands, he used his mouth, tasting her neck and drinking the last of the water that trailed down her back. It was maddening how much she wanted him. How her body pulled to be free of its cold abstinent cage. Her hard, restless nipples strained, demanding attention, finally. She always felt it there first.

She brought him to her breasts, filling his large hands. She gasped when he squeezed her, held her, and molded her like he'd done to her leg. He was just as aroused. She felt him pushing against her back and breathing hard against her shoulder.

His voice was in her ear. "Tell me your name."

First, she shook her head, denying him that privilege. But he bucked against her, pressing her to him until she felt she'd burst.

"What's your name?" He asked again, gruffer.

"My name's Greta," she breathed.

They made it to her bed somehow.

He took his towering stance, but this time towering over her on the bed; his arms magnificent steel bars that she gripped when he threatened to enter her. But he was in no hurry. For this she was thankful. She'd been plotting every inch of her body that needed his touch; cried out for release.

Underneath him, she felt so powerful; in control, but yet weaker than she'd ever been. She let him taste her vulnerability as she kissed away the signature smirk from his lips. She uttered his name into his mouth, and he answered, growling, biting mercifully into the firm tip of her breast.

He couldn't stop touching or tasting her. He descended, his mouth covering her as he moved. His tongue smeared wet and thirsty across her quivering thighs, waiting for the invitation to savor more.

She guided him with an airy, expectant, "yes."

It was a lunatic hunger that drove him. She wasn't convinced he'd get his fill as his tongue probed deeper into her, but she writhed against him, hoping like hell to satiate him; relieve him of this starvation he'd let whittle away at him for too damn long.

He clutched her thighs, hauling her legs around his neck. She pushed against him, begging, her fingers in his hair, urging him further. His muffled grunts were both fantastic and maddening. She felt devoured, but not sampled enough. Until finally she quaked, crying out, and he rocked her, slipping his hands beneath her ass. He lifted her one final time to his lips, lapping at her shuddering flesh, and she moaned her appreciation for his attention to detail.

He crawled over her, nuzzling into her neck, kneading into flesh that just kept responding to him. The release was tremendous, but not enough to completely satisfy her. He was throbbing, concrete, against her, and this only built another wave of need inside her.

She gripped his face, sought out his eyes. They were glassy shards of mirror, reflecting back her own ache. _More?_ He mouthed, voiceless.

Her head bobbed maniacally. "I want you more," she promised.

"What do you want?" He taunted; quiet, stern.

"Anything," she panted. "All of you."

Quick to oblige her seemingly desperate request, he abandoned all restraint. Daryl gripped the back of her slender neck, handling her roughly against the solid wood headboard of the bed. His unoccupied hand cut, parting her thighs. She inhaled, sharp, approving as he dove in deep and cruel with his lengthy fingers.

Greta dived in as well to his messy tangle of hair, directing his perfect tongue to the solid tips of her breasts. He welcomed her taut nipple between his teeth, and she almost laughed at how insanely good it felt.

He was proving to be quite masterful at pleasuring her above and below. With his mouth busy at her breasts, his fingers withdrew and slid in flawless rhythm, acquainting him with her ripened flesh once again. He sent amazing jolts of delight through her. He was completely charged, ready for his own release, but not yet ready to give her everything just yet.

Her heat cupped in his palm, they eased slowly and carefully together; her arms entwined tightly around his lean frame.

"I need you," she told him, eyes wide. He nodded. He understood the yearning. He'd been feeling it for days, ignoring it, and shoving it away. But now he was facing it, and he liked the way it looked.  
He sat her down snugly into his lap; the hand holding her throbbing clit aiding to guide his aching piece effortlessly inside her. He grasped her waist, pushing and pulling her until she matched his cadence perfectly.

He had given her total control to take what she needed, and his selflessness thrilled her. She accepted him again and again, holding his shoulders. She shoved a hard kiss into the corner of his mouth, licking and tugging recklessly at his thin bottom lip.

Her fluid rocking created huge waves as they both ebbed closer to their final destination. "Greta," he moaned once, uncontrolled.

Her name sounded so right rolling off his tongue. Her enamored fingers caressed his tense jaw; they traced the stone-set mouth he spoke with. He let them enter, tasting them. She watched his face change and felt him building higher, closer to the end. He titled back, calling out to the ceiling.

"Look at me," she insisted softly, and he obeyed.

He grew impatient for his own release until he finally placed his hands upon her shoulders, forcing her down, loving her tortured gasp for breath. He stiffened, bucking her fiercely; erupting into her. And she came, too, brutally, crashing into him until the scream of need silenced.

He fought to keep his eyes on her, but all he wanted to do was lean and close his eyes against the dizzying and satisfying sensation taking him over. He wanted to drag her down with him until they were put together, winded and hungry no longer.

There was nothing left to her; just rubbery bones and weary flesh, and she moved almost lifelessly with him under the cool sheets. Her fingers still gripped him tight. He rolled onto his side, facing her, and she nestled easily into the safe place he created between the bed and his chest.

He kissed her; held her, and complied when she asked him to stay with her into the night.

********************************************************  
_New Year's Eve._ The realization jolted her awake. Along with having to pee something terrible. She looked at the man sprawled atop her bed, his light snores echoing around the cold room. He had stayed.

_Of course he stayed. He's freaking exhausted_, she chastised. _But he'll leave today for sure. His hand and body will be ready for the travel. As soon as he kills the wolves. _

The voice she listened to paused, waiting for her response. _Well, what do you think of that?_

She'd give it no satisfaction, no needle to poke her with. "I don't have time to think about it. There's work to be done," she whispered in the dawnless dark.

She moved quietly, gathering clothes and dressing swiftly in the hall.

Daryl found her soon, following the homey scent of baked bread and blueberries to the smokehouse. He knocked before entering as to avoid a gunshot blast to the brain.

"I'm comin in," he called through the door.

"Go ahead!" She yelled above the roar of the fire she was stoking. "Come on in!"

Heat exploded around him as he entered, and the little building reminded him of something the smarter pig brother would've built to escape the big bad wolf-sturdy, cozy, and equipped with a fire pit big enough to roast that fucking fur ball to a crisp.

It was tight quarters, big enough for two people to stand, but to move around each other would get annoying fast. Plus, she'd added a work table and cemented a bread-baking oven from leftover brick. He couldn't even believe the exhaust system she'd had to build in herself all while protecting herself from walkers and whatever else came along.

Greta was stripped of her gear, sweating in a loose tshirt, her dark hair braided past her shoulders. She turned to him, her smile brilliant, rivaling the flames. "Good morning, Cowboy. Did you find your breakfast by the fireplace?"

He nodded, "Yeah, I did. Thanks. Again."

"Of course," she said, still holding on to that smile, but something about it seemed fractured; missing.

He looked past her into the wide gaping oven. "What are you up to?"

"Getting some baking done." she mumbled, distracted by the bubbling cobbler she was struggling to pull out with the long wooden bread paddle.

Daryl jumped in, grabbing the handle, too, moving with her to place her dessert on a short, flour-drenched table. He stepped back, bumping into a dead and plucked turkey hanging from its claws, awaiting its time to be cooked.

"So, you turned this smokehouse into an oven," he noted.

"Pretty much." She was looking over jars, examining the many filled with different berries she'd preserved for these hard months. "I don't have much flour left so soon it will just be good for the meat. But today's a special occasion."

This piqued Daryl's curiosity. "Oh yeah? How so?"

Her back was to him, working, but he could tell she was smiling. "It's New Year's Eve. I figured before you left I'd make us a really nice meal-roast turkey and a blueberry cobbler. Something substantial to send you off on your merry way,"

He barged through her ramble, turning her to face him. "Why d'you care so much about the days? New Year's Eve may as well be the Fourth of July. And both of em may as well be any ole Sunday 'sfar as anyone else's concerned. Don't you get it? None of that stuff matters anymore."

She pulled away, her bottom lip pouting her rebellion. "No, don't you get it? The days still mean something to me. I'm not giving up hope."

Her care and continuity just pissed him off. "I'm not gonna stand around here and listen to all this horse shit when I got wolves to hunt. The quicker I get this done, the quicker I'm outta here. Outta your life."

She blinked, pasting on indifference, but inside she cracked. _Ah. I see. Run away, little boy. Go get_ _your wolves and then good riddance to you_. After a content night of feeling so full she now stood feeling empty; being eaten up inside by conflict. _I was prepared for this, but it's still not fair_. _I gave myself to a scared boy last night, hoping somewhere deep he'd turn into a man by morning. No such luck. _

She exhaled a freeing breath. "Okay. Have fun. You need backup?"

He just stood there, chewing his tongue, glaring at her through those frosty panes of glass. "Naw. You just stay put holding onto yer hope."

The clearing was soundless. Daryl moved into the trees with the silence.

The storm had passed leaving behind boughs breaking with heavy snow. Icicles sharp enough to kill a man randomly let go, stabbing into the helpless snow. He stepped around them, his eyes trained on the ground.

Anything that moved against this white background would be spotted in an instant. His only hope was that his familiar scent would rouse the wolf or wolves, and they'd come to him instead of him having to traipse through the woods like Little Red Riding Hood.

He sniffed into the air like the animal he hunted, but got nothing; just clean crisp winter air sitting still around him. Picking up the tracks he'd been looking for with the crossbow at his helm, he crossed from tree to tree. He ignored the twitter of winter birds and the occasional prattle of squirrels poking out to chastise him for his intrusion.

The thought of walkers didn't even occur to him. He'd been here too long, wrapped in the security of the blizzard. _But the storm's ended, and I best be thinkin' of every possibility. _

Time crept by, but remained meaningless to him as he followed along the tracks. They were drawing him deeper into the forest where the bright snow lit the path, but the sun was gone. He felt viewed from the front; as if something was watching him enter its lair.

He walked further ahead, knowing he was on the wolf trail. The horse's shoe prints had gone deep enough into the snow to leave huge dents. The wind had not concealed them completely with blowing snow.

Daryl's eyes and ears were everywhere. It wasn't until the wind shifted could he smell the stench of encroaching death. He swiveled to a thick cluster of trees where he knew they'd landed the day before.

And there it was. The great rabid wolf, curved into a matted, bloody heap. Its head lolled, the giant tongue protruding, vibrating with each labored breath the beast took.

Daryl circled it, bow poised, but it didn't take a quick man to know the wolf was severely wounded. It still had the militant resolve to follow him with its fiery eyes, snarling and snapping. It hurled foamy diseased spit at him, but Daryl wiped it into the snow without a wince or a gag.

He found his stance, aiming for kill.

Something moved. To his right. The eyes he'd felt upon him were not the hot eyes of the rabid wolf. He turned, the bow never leaving its post.

_The white wolf. Female_. He could tell by her size, the way she moved. Her eyes darted between him and her injured friend on the ground. She licked at her muzzle, but there wasn't an ounce of heat or warning in her gaze. She stared at Daryl, so beautiful and mystic amongst the wind and swirling snow. Her eyes seemed to be telling him to put down his weapon because she meant him no harm.

He let down his guard, placing the crossbow at his side. _Yes, that's it_. She stepped lightly to the fallen wolf. _Not just her pack mate; her mate for life_.

It hit Daryl like a snowball to the face. _The grey wolf had gone rabid, lost its mind. It was no longer a valued member of the pack, and the others ran it out. But the white wolf had stayed by its side, protectin it from itself and us from it. She'd made a choice to fight 'im off us, kill 'im is she had to, and now she's askin' permission to finish the job…_

Even while the grey wolf gnashed its mighty blood-stained teeth at her, she nuzzled into his hind quarters, whimpering a sorrowful goodbye. Daryl looked over his shoulder, into the sky. In the not so far distance he could see smoke from the smokehouse and the cabin's fireplace drifting above the trees, converging into one hazy tornado, twisting away until it finally just evaporated into the grey clouds.

He thought of Greta; taking him in as a complete stranger, feeding him her rations, fine to go without. Mending him. Befriending him. Satisfying him and enjoying what he had to offer in return. Working her body to the bone to keep her life going while all the time living with the weight of dead memories. He'd never forget her or her sacrifices. Her woodsy natural scent clung to him. Her sweet smile would haunt him nightly. Her tears would continue to pierce him. The taste of her would always linger on his tongue.

He turned back to the wolves. The white wolf, she was a beauty; so fierce a fighter and so fearless a lover. So trusting to come into the clearing with the bow loaded and waiting not knowing if he'd take her life just as faultlessly. But here she was teaching him. _When ya find your life's mate, ya just don't question anymore. You're just there; through the best and the worst. No matter what the other needs or wants ya find a way to get it, fulfill it, live through it. _

_ Live through it. _Daryl shook his head. _Greta. _

He picked up the bow, putting it back in its fitted holster across his back. Studying the great snow queen, he backed away. She was preparing herself for the inevitable, her immense body shaking with anticipation, tufts of snow falling from her glistening coat.

"Thank you," he said as the wolf reared back and with an agonizing growl, sunk her merciful teeth into her sick mate's throat.

The grey wolf barely thrashed. Its weakened yelp also seemed to thank her. Its tail gave one final whip into the snow.

Daryl felt his feet running. Hot tears cut lines into his face as he ran against the wind.

Echoing above the trees, telling every living creature of the sacrifice she'd just made, the great white widow let out an anguished howl that rattled Daryl to his soul.

**Author's Note**: First of all, thank you for taking time from whatever it is you do all day to read this. Second, no way is this the end. We have a final chapter and a small epilogue to go.

bounce bullets off that ass


	6. Chapter 6-Storm's End

57

**Blizzard**

**Chap 6: Storm's End**

"_**The winter here is cold and bitter. It's chilled us to the bone. I haven't seen the sun for weeks. Too long, too far from home. It's better this way, I say. Haven't seen this place before. Where everything we say and do hurts us more and more. It's just that we stayed so long in the same old sickly skin. If all the strength and all the courage come and lift me from this place. I know I can love you much better than this, full of grace…" Full of Grace by Sarah McLachlan **_

"Greta!" Daryl hollered as he dashed from room to room of the darkening cabin.

He had no idea how long he'd actually been tracking the wolves; how deep he'd gone into the forest. By the time he'd found his way back to the farm, the sun was setting. He'd left at sun up.

_She probably thinks the gawdamn wolves got me_. _Maybe some unfrozen geeks got her._

In the kitchen, a kerosene lamp's flame jumped and wilted as a cool breeze wafted from the open cellar door. Daryl called down to her, but the wind's hollow howl answered back. He slammed the door shut, glancing around the room once more.

Atop the table sat Greta's special occasion meal. The roast turkey on a platter adorned with what looked like charred pinecones and other cooked root vegetables she'd been storing away. Some kind of canned fruit congealed in a bowl. The blueberry cobbler he'd smelled right away entering the cabin looked outstanding. She'd gone ahead with her plans. He wished he'd gone along with them, too.

Something dark tugged at him, prompting him to pull the hatchet before heading up the shadowy staircase. _If she's okay, she'll hear me coming. If she's not. Well. My blade will take care of that_. The realization punched him hard in the gut.

Everything about the house stood in eerily quiet except a slight tinkle of sound. It came from behind the first door on the right, at the very top of the stairs, directly across from Greta's bedroom. Since he'd been in the cabin, that door had always remained closed. He'd never bothered to look behind it. It wasn't his place. But now he felt like he had a reason to. Because something was moving, slow and indistinct, in the room.

Daryl braced himself for the worst. His heart dropped. _While I'm out learnin lessons from wolves she_ _couldda been getting mauled or turning_…He shook the idea from his brain, but he knew damn well it was a more than likely possibility.

Like the great white beast, he moved stealthily around the door until he was crouched at the frame. From this spot, he could see directly into Greta's pitch bedroom. No sound could be heard, no movement to see, no shadows to decipher. He gave his taut lips a final swipe from his nervous tongue, taking that one final deep breath. Then, Daryl clutched the knob. Achingly slow and silent, he peeled back the door.

Of course, it gave an awful groan, forcing him to enter with renewed speed and a keen eye for walkers. He growled, wolf like, rounding the door frame, barging in like a fire had started.

She didn't scream. She just straightened in the rocking chair, startled and gasping for breath. The plate of something gooey she balanced on her lap almost slid to the floor, but she caught it in the nick of time.

"Greta?!" He choked. He stomped to her, falling to one knee, grabbing and looking her over like she'd just stepped out of a nearby explosion.

"Yes, of course," she said.

"What the hell?! Didn't you hear me calling?!" He shouted.

"Yes, I heard you, but,"

"But nothin! If you heard me why didn't you answer?!" He was all over her, yelling, still looking for bites, bruises, scrapes, anything that would cause him to kill something or someone.

She laughed, pulling her limbs away from him. "Daryl, my goodness; calm down."

His face was inches from hers, that mad uncontrollable fear narrowing his eyes. "Don't tell me to calm down, Gawddammit, I thought," he stopped, breaking for air, "I thought,"

His eyes finally adjusted on her face. Tear tracks cut through the dirt from her day's work. Her eyes were red-rimmed, puffy, as if she'd been crying for hours. The hair she had meticulously braided this morning was coming apart, flyaway strands Daryl mechanically shoved aside with the heel of his palm. _What in THE hell did I miss? _

"Daryl? You thought what?" She pressed, more confused than when he hadn't come back after hours of being on the hunt.

Looking down at her lap, he saw blueberry cobbler on the plate. Two candy-striped candles flickered dull from the crumbly center. "What's, what is this? What are ya doin in here? In the dark like this?"

She didn't answer. She just looked ahead, a fresh line of tears streaming effortlessly from the corner of her eye.

Daryl stood. He turned around the room, noticing the calming blue walls with the plastic vinyl jungle animals clinging to the paint. He saw the chiming mobile turning. He heard it cranking out a tiny tinkly lullaby, the monkeys twisting around its palm tree center. Stuffed toys kept each corner of the crib company, waiting for the baby that would never snuggle with them again.

His heart sank. He looked down, suddenly coherent, and noticed he'd almost stepped on a large book, set open at her feet. He bent, scooping it up, and closed it before the chubby round-faced boy in the photos could smile up at him.

"We nicknamed him Blueberry," she told him, her voice creaking out rote and informal. "Because he had such a bad temper. Like his Granddaddy Hatterly. That when he'd get to crying, he'd just ball up his cheeks and stop breathing. Looked just like a little, plump blueberry face."

Daryl set the book back at her feet, scooting it away with the tip of his boot. "No, Greta," his head shook, condemning what she was doing. "Don't do this to yourself."

She squeezed the tears out. It felt better that way; required more effort than to just let them flow. "I have to," she exhaled. "Today is his birthday. He would have turned two."

_Oh, Griffin. My sweet baby boy_. _I couldn't protect you_. _You must have been so scared_.

The loss exploded inside her. Whatever Daryl had awakened was violently shoved aside to make room for what losing Samuel and Griffin had done to her. She had made every day count, working hard and keeping her chin down to keep from facing this beating. But now, it was pounding away at her, and all she could do was retell it. Relive it. Accept it again.

She got up, putting the uneaten dessert on the dresser. She went to the tall wooden crib, clutching the rail until her knuckles went white. "This crib. It was Samuel's. But we were passing it on to his sister to make room for Griffin's new big boy bed."

Daryl wanted so bad to go to her. Be there like she'd been for him. Heal her like she'd healed him. But he felt the wall there. A wall she'd been building up all day without him while he was out chasing tracks. He could feel it. If he couldn't touch her, comfort her, he could listen. Maybe that's just what she needed anyway. Someone to finally unload all this garbage onto.

He winced, just trying to put the hard words together to form a question. "Okay, so tell me. What happened to your lil' boy?"

She sniffed. "It was a couple weeks after everything had happened; the virus struck. Samuel was in major survival mode-building the tower, turning the smokehouse into a cook room, and we were canning everything we could get into a jar. Then, he had to put down most of his family. It hadn't really hit me until I saw what they had turned into. How blood thirsty and ravenous they had become."

Daryl circled the room, lips pursed. His eyes were upon her, studying her in the dim candlelight. "Sam was a reasonable man; a strong man. He told me he had expected to lose everyone-except for me and Griffin. He could keep us safe. Sam tried finishing the tower by himself. But he fell. I was washing dishes at the kitchen sink and heard his screams. I walked out the back door just as he hit the ground."

Daryl blanched. What he'd screamed at her the other night, going up the stairs, about a dead man's name. He couldn't think about what she must have been going through up in that bed alone after hearing him say that. He hated himself a little bit more for that.

Her eyes clenched shut as if she was watching her late husband fall all over again. "At first, I didn't believe it. I checked him over and he was dead as a doornail, but I still didn't believe it. I just kept right on doing the dishes and going about the chores in the barn like nothing had happened. I guess that's why they call it going into shock?"

But Daryl knew. _We all come back_. He closed his eyes against what he knew she'd be saying next.

"When I finished in the barn, I noticed Samuel's body was missing. I knew Griffin was still down for his afternoon nap so I just thought I'd been wrong. That he'd had a pulse, it was just weak, and he'd gotten up, gone inside, poured himself a glass of lemonade, and went to fetch his son out of the crib." Her voice broke, just shattered into a thousand pieces. "I had no idea."

Daryl was there. Those long strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her in to the shelter of him. His voice was low and gruff, but kind in her ear. "You ain't gotta do this. I already know how it's gonna end."

She shook against him, pulling away. "No, you don't!" She hollered. "You don't know," she struggled against it, "you don't know _shit_! He had come back. He was dead; a dead man walking. Like some ghoul out of a George Romero movie. Except scarier. I couldn't even…" she shuddered, picturing him all over again. Slumped over with the crooked neck and his limbs hanging dislocated from their sockets as if he'd dragged them along for the fun. The dead creep look of his eyes instead of his gentle brown orbs. It terrified her all over again.

She rushed on as if she'd forget to tell Daryl any details. "And he'd heard the baby waking up from his nap. He came up here, right in this room, and he _bit _him."

Daryl imagined _bit _was putting it nicely. Or sanely. However she had walked in on it.

"I heard the screams from outside. I ran in, and when I got to the door all I could see was blood and Samuel bent over the crib. I yelled Sam's name, but when he turned around it wasn't Sam no more. It was…one of those things. He hadn't turned around because he'd recognized his name. He turned because he heard another living meal."

She sighed, sobbed, and Daryl saw the entire scenario replaying on her quivering face. The tears were pouring. Everything about her pain was killing him; worse than watching Carol scream and struggle to get to her walker daughter. Worse than losing his only brother. Worse than being lost and starving in the wilderness for nine days. Worse than anything he'd ever experienced. _So this is what fallin' in love must be. Worse pain ever imaginable._

She continued, mopping at her runny eyes. "I just moved. Samuel had told me we had to kill the brain so I went for it. He chased me into the bedroom, and I had his fishing knife in his eye socket before he knew what hit him. When I went back for Griffin, he wasn't crying anymore. Instead, he was making these horrible gurgling sounds. I went for the first aid kit. And when I came back, my baby boy was…"

Daryl had heard enough. "He was gone."

"You know what he was," she said dark and thick with contempt. Her wild eyes burned with fury. She turned them on him, scorching him. "Have you ever had to kill a child, Cowboy?"

He shook his head, staring down at his boot tips. _Sophia. Rick lifted that load_.

"Well, imagine then having to kill your own."

He couldn't. Instead, he tried everything not to think about it; to push everything she'd just said under some frayed rug in his mind like he tried to do with Sophia and Merle and Carol and Rick and the rest of em.

"Well, today is a special occasion. Not only is it New Year's Eve and Griffin's second birthday, but it's the day I make some real changes around here. I'm going to start by taking this room apart. When the world gets put back together I might be able to get me a farmhand. Someone desperate for shelter and food in exchange for a day's work."

Daryl moved into action. "Okay. So, tonight ya rest. Tomorrow we'll get started at sundown. I'll,"

Her head was wagging, eyes glistening again. "No. There's no _we _here anymore, Cowboy."

"Whaddayamean there ain't no _we_ anymore?" He spat.

That's when he noticed the flash of anger cross her face. She turned to him, crossing her defiant arms across her chest. _The wall. It was up again_. "That's right. You went out today to hunt wolves. You left at dawn, and you never came back. Until now."

"And I'm back now. Back to stay," he told her.

_Back to stay_. Those words had never felt so solid to him. Staying in one place hadn't been an option in such a long time. He never thought it ever would be an option again. She made him feel like it was. He was going to show Carol up in Heaven who was probably watching over him that he could be the man of honor she had been looking for.

"No!" She stomped like a pouting child. "No, I won't let you. I let you into my home. I took care of you. I told you my name against my better judgment, and I, I," she sputtered, tripped up on the way he he'd held her hips and pushed himself into her and oh God, how amazing his tongue had been. Her face changed, but she was still clinging to that anger.

He gave a slight whistle, stifling a snide chuckle between his teeth. "I know what you are thinkin about, woman. And I'm thinking the same thing. There's no denying we're pretty good together. There ain't nothin wrong with that. That part of us," words failed him. as they so often did.

"I'll give you that," she said. "We are good together-too good, and that's the problem, Daryl. I've lost the only two people in the world I had left. I had to _kill _them. I can't do it again. I just won't. I thought I could do this. I thought I'd find it in me to beg you to stay if I had to because you feel so right in my life, but after today-when you didn't come back. I thought you were gone for good. I expected you to come stumbling back as one of those zombies."

"But I didn't. I'm here!" He reasoned.

"And it killed me!" She shot back. The pain was real, all over her face. "It killed me to think you were gone. I don't have much of myself left. I need what's left for me. For my own survival."

He made it clear. "I'm not leaving. You don't want me to."

"Yes, I do." She sighed, drained. "I'm going to feed you. Then, I'm going to pack you a provisions bag, and Daryl, I'm sending you on your way."

He barely ate. What he did consume was only because he had to; because he had no guarantees that he'd eat for a while, and he'd need to ration whatever she provided in his bag.

She left him to his meal, sullen and out of words. She occupied herself with packing him food and water. She made sure he had a bit of salve and bandaging for the road until he happened upon another shelter; some place stable he could replenish his stock. She decided to part ways with the winter gear he had on his back and a few other of Samuel's smaller shirts.

_Greta, what are you doing_? Her returned heart questioned, completely stricken and perplexed. _You finally got me back and now you're breaking me to pieces. _

"This is for the best," she decided aloud. "Nobody really gets hurt. At least not mortally hurt. Just a surface scratch. Something we both can handle. Lone wolf, Daryl," she replied.

She had no inkling of his presence lurking in the doorway, studying her with those keen, glacial eyes. Every move she made to push him out the door disgusted him. He cringed when he saw her put a folded shirt into her late husband's old hunting satchel.

The familiar asshole he'd learned to survive as stepped forward. "You want me gone, I'm gone. But I'm not taking your dead man's things."

She paused, mid-fold, eyeing him wearily. "Go ahead and do your darndest to be hurtful. I'm all out of tears."

"Yeah, well, we'll see about that, woman!" He yelled, slamming his fist into the door jam. "When winter's over and you have walkers crawling all over this place. Or when it's planting time and you gotta work it all by yourself. Or when you're alone at night. Or how bout next New Year's Eve when it's your lil' baby's birthday and you ain't got no one to share your sad story with?"

He regretted it immediately, but it was too late. Her face went from tired to pure rage. She came at him, throwing the bag into his unsuspecting arms. "Why you…"she grabbed at his collar, shoving him backward. He could've stood his ground and stayed put, but he let her shove and move him. "You get the hell out of my house! Right now!"

He allowed a couple more good, hard shoves for the sake of the mistake he'd made, but then he scuttled out the door like a dog that had just been beaten.

"Of all the cabins to come across why'd it have to be mine?" She grumbled. "I kind of hate you for ever interrupting my life, Daryl Dixon."

_Truth be told, you don't know what the hell to feel_, her heart corrected her. _You want to stay sad for Samuel and Griffin. You want to stay tough for Greta. You want to be mad at Daryl. Just admit you're scared and lonely. And he made you happy. He gave your life meaning again. _

She scowled at the front of Griffin's unfinished scrapbook she held in her lap. "Oh, quit talking to me like you know me."

_Know you better than you think_, it said.

She opened the book. Griffin's birth, coming home from the hospital, his first Halloween all bundled up as a chubby blueberry, Hatterly family's first Christmas with Griffin, her baby boy's baptism at St. Timothy's Lutheran church, and Mother's Day spent at Aunt Linda's lake house; so many memories and good times and then…emptiness. Dozens of unfilled pages.

_Not just blank pages for Griffin and Samuel. Unfilled pages for me, too. And I'm still alive_.

Outside the wind groaned along with her sorrow, but the storm had long since ended. In the barn, Maizie snorted and hissed, her most frightened whinnies carrying on that mournful wind. The chickens were going berserk, and her one cow groaned in harmony.

Greta set aside the book. She crept to the back door, peering out into the dark barnyard. But she could see nothing that would have set the animals into frenzy mode.

_Just a ghost wind_, she decided.

As she ambled back to the cuddly spot on the couch, a wolf's distant howl stopped her in her tracks. It was followed by another long, low droning howl. Then another chimed in until an entire chorus of heartbreaking bays saddened the sky.

_Daryl._ She'd forgotten to ask if he'd killed the wolves. Obviously they hadn't succeeded at killing him like she'd first suspected when the hours ticked by and he hadn't returned.

Behind her, a distressing snarl echoed from the barnyard and landed upon her back door step. It froze Greta, and she knew a wolf was too near.

Her belligerence reared up like Maizie in a tizzy. For two minutes, Daryl had made her feel lesser. Weaker. As if she couldn't take care of herself or her farm. And yet it was true that he could not even handle two wolves. With this knowledge needling her, she grabbed the shotgun, checked its ammo, and stomped out into the cold.

She walked with a vengeful purpose to the barn and was mildly surprised to find the yard empty. She poked her head inside, but the animals had already calmed, going back to their peaceful winter's night sleeps.

Greta shrugged and stepped back into the night. She closed the door just as something moved on the other side.

She jerked, setting the shotgun into its usual defensive position. _The white wolf_, she breathed. The livestock had sensed it, but now, as it stood so near, they didn't make a sound. Neither did Greta. She inhaled sharply, but refused to budge in the ultimate stare down with the beautiful beast.

The wolf's eyes gleamed magnificent in the night; docile and calm. But Greta waited on it. She trembled, her steel resolve resistant to fear. Finally, the wolf relented. It looked away, turning its blood-stained muzzle as if pointing into the distance. Greta noticed it was not the forest behind her it gestured to, but farther away, up and over the cabin. _The road_.

The wolf took a step toward her. Greta repositioned the gun, and stepped back. Again, the wolf stepped forward, watching the guarded woman then darting her eyes to the ground. Again, Greta stepped back. And so the dance began; the wolf moving forward and the woman stepping back. The gun was never lowered, but it no longer posed a threat between them.

The moon's blank face reflected off the packed snow at the front of the cabin. It lit up the path where the road used to be before the blizzard. The wolf nudged some snow, throwing an icy cold into the air. It landed at Greta's feet.

She looked down at the two sets of tracks. One human; Daryl. One animal; the wolf. Greta gnawed at the inside of her cheek. _The wolf; had she followed him? Stalked him? Protected him? _

_ Lone Wolf_, she remembered naming him. _There ain't no such thing_, she remembered him correcting her. _Wolves are pack animals. They take one mate for life_.

Greta watched the wolf carefully as she careened, moving her lithe body in the direction of the hanging moon.

_We aren't meant to live alone_.

She'd told him she was all out of tears, but she'd lied. They were raining down her cheeks like a wet day in May. The thing Daryl woke in her stretched, yawned, and began to run. She felt the wind whipping her hair, slapping her in the face, and pushing her backward, but Greta ran. The wolf ran with her, at her side, and she was amazed at how she could keep up in the deep snow with her heavy boots and winter coat.

The wind could not hold her back. Neither could her pride or her sadness. She just kept running, at her fullest speed, racing through the trees with the wolf her guide until she felt her lungs freezing up, ready to explode.

Near the frozen creek, she saw him. He was bent, scooping at the snow with his gloved hands. He was growling and cussing as he tried to dig the back tires of the stranded truck out of the ditch.

"Daryl!" She gasped, near doubling over from the race.

He bolted upright, squinting against the blowing snow. "Greta?"

A few more paces, she willed herself. But he met her halfway, dropping the bow and the bag and his anger all at his feet.

He held her at arm's length though; still wary and wondering what he'd forgotten at the cabin to bring her all the way to him in this sub-zero cold. He saw the icy pearls of tears glistening her cheeks again like the day in the barnyard, but this time he swiped at them, knocking them away.

"Come home," she panted.

He licked at his lip, unsure, glancing into the expressionless moon. "'D'you follow the tracks to find me?"

"No, I followed the w-" she turned to point, show him the amazing animal that had led her directly to him, but the beast was hidden amongst the tall drifts and towering trees.

"The what?" He pressed.

"The wolf. I swear to you, it was right there. It brought me here," she told him. "Now, I'm bringing you home. Come on."

He shivered beneath all his layers. _Home_. He'd been content to be homeless until he'd found his place with her. Until she reached out with cold, trembling fingers and pulled his face to hers, kissing him warm.

"Home," he repeated. He enjoyed a great sigh and a smile. "I think I can handle that."

She kissed him again, and the celebratory bay of the great white wolf sealed their bond at last.

_** The End **_

**Author's Note:** If you'd like to know what becomes of Greta and Daryl, I will be posting an epilogue soon! I appreciate your time and your reviews.


	7. Epilogue-Season's Change

60

**Blizzard**

**Epilogue: Season's Change**

Greta leaned against the rail of the watch tower. Fifty feet up she expected to feel dizzy, but the height did not affect her. Exhilaration, accomplishment, a sense of real pride were her only sensations. The air was so light and easy to swallow this high up; nothing seemed out of reach. She was enjoying this newness of life.

She could see for miles; over the sea of ready corn that washed up on her land. She'd worked day to night planting, and she was finally standing above her final product. She was content. She contemplated the last few months, gathering her fulfillment like she'd gathered the ripe blackberries from the patch at sun break to make Daryl's favorite fruit-studded oatmeal. It was a twice a week ritual now that picking season had begun.

Aside from the massive corn crop, she'd cleared the land, skimming back on the corn to make room for wheat and soybeans. Something new Samuel had always wanted to try, but he creature of habit routines had never allowed. She could smile now thinking his name. She felt him still, but in peace and acceptance. She knew he was above her, holding their son, pointing down and cooing, "Look what mommy made."

But she had help. Two extra hands, Daryl and a young drifter from Kansas they'd taken on early in the planting season. _Just in time_, she grinned. Steven, the drifter, knew his wheat and his beans, and she'd proven to be an apt pupil, studying and mimicking his procedures for successful planting. So far, as the crop neared harvest, she was happy with the progress.

And he'd brought another horse; a male. They'd had a new pony born late in the birthing season. This made her think of the animals, what used to be her friends and family. But now she could think of them for what they really were-her bread and butter; the meal they shared at the table, because she had true family now.

The manly rumble of Daryl's Bonneville 650 pulled her from her reverie. She watched, laughing, as he idled onto the farmstead, parting the sea of wild turkeys that had migrated and gathered on the property. He kicked and called at them playfully. He tried to sound as tough as he really was, but Greta knew better. She'd unearthed a decent man with a good heart and an honorable soul despite the brawn and hard past that might suggest otherwise.

She watched him rustling with the cans, hauling them to the metal tool shed. At the door, he turned, giving her a thumbs up, and she waved down to him, acknowledging his success. _He'd found more gas! Fuel for the truck and tractor for harvest time. _

She waited for him as he locked the gas away then climbed the never-ending ladder of the tower to get to her.

"Well, how'd it go?" She asked as he hopped onto the landing.

"Real good," he said, squinting against the amber sun. "You were right about that farm on the other side of the cornfield. Frickin' gold mine. You wanna expand?"

Her eyes wide with wonder, she shook her head at his good mood and enthusiasm. "Slow down, Cowboy. Let's see how we do with this harvest and our other little expansion project first."

She patted at the bulging belly she'd been absently rubbing all morning. Still trying to get used to the idea of it, really.

It was an invitation for Daryl to kneel before her. He smoothed the thin fabric of her shirt over her tight milky skin. "Speakin' of the holy terror, how's ma boy treatin ya?"

"Or girl," she quickly corrected.

He kissed her protruding navel. "Naw, it's a boy. My pa told me bad ass Dixons only breed more bad ass Dixons. Gotta be a boy."

Greta rolled her eyes. "I don't feel like having this conversation for the seventy-ninth time. But since you asked, I'm being treated rough. I've been kicked repeatedly and made to throw up three times today."

Daryl tapped at her taut skin. "Hey, behave, boy." He lifted his face against the sun to shrug her some consolation. "He's gonna be like his ole man, I guess. Stubborn and ornery as a som'bitch."

"Watch your language!" She scolded. "_She _can hear you."

Daryl flashed her a snarly grin. He stood, caging her in his arms. His hands were locked firmly across her belly, taking possession of what he cherished most. "Then _he'll_ hear this. I love you. And him, too. Already. Just never thought it possible, ya know. We got som'thin here, woman."

Looking down at the farmstead at all the something Daryl mentioned made Greta swell with satisfaction. _We may be isolated and tired and fighting off zombies once in a while, but we have a life. And each other. _

She waved down to Steven as he patched a tear in the chicken wire fence; again. "He was a good risk," she said. "Such a hard worker."

"And sexy too," Daryl teased in his best imitation of her voice, but Greta knew there was a slight underlying tone of real envy there. _He hasn't been changed completely_. And for that she was thankful.

She played along. "Hmm, yeah, a little."

Daryl squeezed her to him tighter. "You tryin' ta tell me som'thin?" He growled.

She turned her cheek until she was able to catch a glimpse of hard set eyes testing her. "Only that I like a man that knows when to be jealous. Especially when his wife is seven months fat and looks like crap most days."

"Wife?" He squawked.

"I thought we were past the point of _just dating_."

"Yeah, but I don't remember signin' on ta that deal," he whistled.

"I don't think we're going to find many churches open to marry us." Carefully, as if not to wake the sleeping child within her, she moved his hands over her belly. "I think this baby has officially declared us man and wife, Cowboy."

She silenced him. Like so many times before when his temper fired up or his hatred for the world consumed him. Or even when his uncertainty about himself or his past had him second guessing the path he'd chosen to ride. She was there.

Quietly, he muttered, "Ya know what I'm thinkin' we need?"

She ventured a guess. "More sleep?"

He chuckled, "Naw, we need a dog."

Greta raised her chin toward the outlying woods. The trees were ablaze with the fiery colors of autumn's arrival. Many of the burned leaves still clung lifeless but loud to their branches. She loved the sound of them rustling in the breeze.

"But we already have a dog," she said.

He chuckled again; this time a little grittier, so amused by her. "No, that'd be a wolf."

"I wonder what our white widow is up to. We haven't seen much of her lately. Do you think she's moved on?" she asked him.

He followed her gaze out to the glorious fall foliage. He shrugged, absently kissing the top her head. "Could have. On to the teach the next hard-headed man a lesson."

"Or woman," she taunted.

He sneered, giving her a hearty, playful slap on the ass. She took her lashing, her deviant laughter echoing out over the farmstead to Steven who looked up, saw their horsing around, and waved them off.

Daryl thought momentarily of Merle. He imagined him watching from the doorway of the pisser down below, snickering and shaking his head, disgusted.

But Daryl didn't back down. He stood taller with her in his arms. _I'm not jus' playin anymore, Big Brother. This is the real deal. _

She turned into him; tried to hug him but her big belly kept them at an awkward distance. She didn't care. She just reached a little further until she could wrap her arms around his neck and pull him down for another too-long and too-deep kiss.

_**"Hate me, need me, love me, tease me, beg me, please me, take me, breathe me. Baby, you know I'm trouble still you wanna be the one to smash my bubble. How strong, how tough, how sweet, how must you feel to rough me up for real. In love I trust; I put my faith to make me happy to keep me safe. In you I find a way to lose myself. Thrill me, baby. I need nothing else…" I Need Nothing Else by Sophie B. Hawkins**_


End file.
